


The Herald's Summer Intern

by PyrrhaIphis



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Awkward situations, Getting Together, M/M, Swearing, Unwanted Advances, intentionally annoying OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-04 05:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14585667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: Early summer, 1984.  Everything seemed to be as normal as it can be in a newspaper office in an election year, until the arrival of a surpassingly pretty summer intern.  Which might not have been a problem for Arthur Stuart, if said intern hadn't attached himself to Arthur's side and decided to be his new best friend.  (Or possibly even more than that.)  Still, the situation was far from permanent -- he'd have to leave again in the fall! -- so it didn't become intolerable until the two of them were ordered to go cover the Democratic National Convention...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you spot any inappropriate Americanisms in Arthur's POV or dialog, please let me know so I can fix them. :)

            From the first day Nathan Shields walked into the _Herald_ office, Arthur Stuart instinctively knew that the boy was trouble.  He was young—hard to be sure how young, since judging by his face he might have been as young as 17 or as old as 21 or 22—and carried himself with the air of a man who knew he was irresistible.  And between his beautiful features and his shaggy mop of limp blond hair, just about everyone seemed to agree with him that he couldn’t—or perhaps _shouldn’t_ —be resisted.  He was overdressed for a low-rent paper like the _Herald_ , wearing smart slacks, a very fashionable shirt that probably cost more than a month of Arthur’s salary, and shiny Italian shoes that definitely cost more than a used automobile.  And yet there was a certain affable innocence to his face, and the look in his eyes was always sweetly naïve, causing most everyone to acquiesce to his every whim.

            In short, it seemed that the _Herald_ ’s summer intern was Dorian Gray.  Hopefully _before_ having his picture painted, but it was too early to tell.

            As soon as Lou introduced Nathan to the assembled staff, asking them all to work with him closely to help him learn as much as possible in his short time at the _Herald_ , Arthur formulated the perfect plan for dealing with the boy:  he planned to avoid him at all costs.  An uncomfortably pretty boy in altogether too-tight trousers was a temptation that he didn’t need.  Lou, to his great credit as a human being, seemed to have picked up on Arthur’s discomfort around the lad, and assigned Murray to the task of supervising him.

            Fat lot of good that did.

            The next morning, while Arthur was trying to fix up a draft, as instructed, he suddenly became aware of someone sliding a chair up close beside him.  “You don’t mind if I join you,” Nathan announced as he sat down.  Arthur’s displeasure must have shown on his face as it reflected off the black screen dotted with green text in front of him, because Nathan then produced a sheepish little smile and added “Right?”

            As much as he would have liked the contrary to be true, Arthur found that he, too, had difficulty refusing the boy anything, and not only did he allow him to watch the editing process—dull as that had to be to watch—but he even answered question after question, slowing his progress to the point that Lou came out to ask what was taking so long.  And yet when he found out why Arthur hadn’t finished yet, he didn’t complain, and he didn’t tell Nathan to go elsewhere.  The old man cheerfully accepted the delay, and went back into his office to wait for the new draft.

            Once he was finally finished, Arthur took the new draft to the editor’s office, planning to ask him to remind Murray that the intern was his responsibility, and that included making sure he wasn’t getting tangled up in other people’s work.  But before he could even open his mouth, Lou said “I’m glad to see you’re getting along with Nate.”

            “I’d rather not be,” Arthur said, handing over his article.

            “There’s no need to take life so seriously,” Lou chuckled.  “Just relax a little.  He seems like a very nice boy.”

            “That’s not really the issue.  I have work to do.”

            “And he can help you with it.  That’s what an intern is for, isn’t it?”

            “Well…”  As much as Arthur wanted to argue with that, he really couldn’t.

            “Anyway, you’re between assignments until I’ve had a look at this,” Lou added, patting the pages Arthur had just given him.  “Why don’t you take the time to get to know him, answer any questions he’s got?”

            Arthur sighed.  He knew an order when he heard one, no matter how sweetly it might be phrased.  “All right.”  There wasn’t really much excuse to refuse, after all.

            The minute he was back at his desk, Nathan pounced on him, pouring out question after question, most of them nothing to do with work.  And despite himself, Arthur found he couldn’t resist answering each and every one.

            By the end of the day, the boy was insisting that Arthur must call him ‘Nate,’ and generally acting as if Arthur was his best friend.

            Fortunately, Arthur had had enough friends to know that it was even more dangerous to trust a friend than it was to trust a lover.

 

***

 

            After Nate had been in the office about two weeks, Lou called everyone together yet again, then gave them an announcement even more startling than the fact that the _Herald_ was getting a summer intern had been.  “We’re coming up on a momentous election,” Lou started by saying.  “Reynolds’ popularity has continued to increase, despite martial law and soaring unemployment.  The Democrats will be working very hard to find a way to get around his popularity and wrest the White House away from him.  So if we want to stay competitive as a newspaper, we can’t afford to miss the Democratic National Convention, or trust to AP for our reports on it.  We’re going to send two men in to cover it.”

            “Two _men_?” Mary repeated, her eyes narrowing.

            “I need you here on the bread riots,” Lou told her.  “You’ve been covering that story from the start.  Handing it over to anyone else could break it.”

            She sighed sadly.  “I suppose so.”

            “I don’t get it,” Arthur said.

            “What don’t you get?”

            “Why do you need someone to go in person?”  He shook his head.  “I know I was still new in town for the last election, but aren’t these conventions a simple matter of selecting the next presidential candidate?  There’s no need to go there to cover that:  it’ll be Mondale.  No one else’s got a prayer.”

            “That’s a gross oversimplification of the process,” Lou assured him.  “The most important delegates and the candidates will be hammering out the plans for the whole campaign.”

            “They won’t be doin’ that with journalists in the room.”  Not unless they were idiots.  If it ended up in the papers, then Reynolds and his cronies would know about it, and what would be the point of even trying in that event?

            “Of course not, but a sharp fellow can pick up a lot.  You’ll see.”

            Arthur shrugged.  “You’ll be sendin’ Murray and Lionel, yeah?”  Or he could send Nate in one of their places.  That would be even better.

            “No, you’re going.”

            “Me?”

            “There’s no better way to get a real feel for what an American election is like than really getting down and dirty in the thick of it,” Lou said, with a warm smile that was entirely inappropriate for what he was talking about.

            “I don’t think I’d do a very good job.  Seein’ as I don’t understand the whole process.”

            “What are you complaining for?” Murray asked, elbowing him.  “You’re getting an all expenses paid vacation to a five star hotel in Florida!”

            “I’d rather _not_ be in Florida in the summer,” Arthur replied.  “It’s hot enough here already; I don’t want to go any further south.”  New York summers already had him longing for nothing so much as a Manchester winter.  A Florida summer would probably finish him right off.

            “So, who’s going with pretty boy, then?” Mary asked.  Arthur did his best not to roll his eyes.  He hadn’t deserved that nickname even on the day he’d first been hired five years ago.  It sounded downright absurd now that Nate was around.

            “It’s a learning experience like no other, one that can’t come for another four years,” Lou said, nodding his head sagely.  “So it wouldn’t be fair to deprive Nate of the opportunity.”

            Arthur grimaced.  “If he’s goin’, then I’m stayin’ here.”

            “You don’t like me anymore?” Nate asked, his lower lip trembling as though he was on the verge of tears.

            “That’s got nothing to do with it.”  After all, Arthur had never liked him in the first place.  “You can’t ‘ave two people goin’ to an event like that who’ve got no idea what’s goin’ on.  That would completely defeat the purpose of sendin’ someone in the first place.”

            “It’s not that hard, and you’re sharp.  Don’t worry so much.”  Lou smiled.  “I’ll fill you in on the drill before you go.  You’ll be like an old pro.”

            “Lou, I—”

            “No, my mind’s made up.”  Lou turned to look at Nate.  “I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork before you can go with him,” he said.  “Come along with me to my office and we’ll get that sorted out.”

            Nate nodded eagerly—too eagerly!—and hurried after the old editor as he headed down the hall.  Once the door was shut behind him, Arthur could feel all his co-workers turning smirking gazes at him.

            “Well, ain’t you a lucky one?” Lionel asked, leaning in close.  Even though it wouldn’t be noon for almost two hours, he already reeked of onions and pumpernickel.  Did he breakfast on the stuff?  “You get to go to a beautiful seaside resort with your boyfriend, on the paper’s dime!”

            “Piss off.”  Arthur could snarl bitterly about it only because he very much wanted _not_ to be seduced by Nate’s pretty face and alluring body.  Otherwise, he would probably be terrified that his co-workers had figured out all too much about his sexuality.  “I’ll be talkin’ to Lou about this the minute he’s free.  I’m not goin’.”

            “I doubt it’s Lou’s choice,” Mary said.  “Why would he want to reduce our already minimal staff?”

            “Then who…?”

            Murray laughed.  “Right, you haven’t heard, ‘cause the brat won’t leave you alone.  Rumour has it his father’s filthy rich.”

            “You can tell that just by the way he dresses,” Arthur chuckled.  Nate still hadn’t given up on dressing as though he was planning to lunch at the Savoy.

            “If Nate’s old man’s the one demanding the trip, it’s probably his call who goes with him,” Murray pointed out.

            “Or the boy’s picking for himself,” Lionel added, with what Arthur could only describe as a leer.  “Doesn’t want to be parted from his lover.”

            “What’s the matter, Lionel?  Jealous?”  There was no point in denying the accusations.  Better to deflect them.  “Wish _you_ were the one he was doggin’ all day long?”

            Lionel’s suddenly purple face might indicate that Arthur had hit the mark with that one.  Or that he was too angry to speak.  Or maybe he was having a heart attack.  With that look on his face, they all seemed like plausible explanations.

            The others had a bit of a laugh at Lionel’s expense, then changed the subject to the convention itself, alternating between giving Arthur advice and expressing their jealousy that they weren’t getting to go in his place.

            As soon as the door to Lou’s office opened and Nate emerged with a small sheaf of paper in his hands, Arthur hurried in and shut the door behind him.  He was determined to change Lou’s mind about this, no matter what it took.

            He would _not_ be the one forced into the sweltering heat because some rich git wanted his son to get the full experience from his summer internship.

 

***

 

            Riding in airplanes was not, in truth, Arthur’s favourite activity, not even in the best of circumstances.  Doing so in a packed plane with malfunctioning air conditioning units in horrible summer heat definitely qualified as torture, as far as he was concerned.  Especially with a chattering blond sitting next to him.

            “So the convention won’t start until tomorrow,” Nate said as he lowered the schedule he had been religiously studying ever since Arthur tried to silence him with it.  “We’ll be free until then.  What do you want to do?  We could go to the beach, or—”

            “After leavin’ my things in my room, I plan to familiarise myself with the convention grounds,” Arthur informed him.  “I don’t want to miss something because I don’t know where I’m goin’.”

            “Oh.  Or I guess we could do that, too.”

            “You can do whatever you want.  If you want to go the beach, go.  I don’t need you taggin’ along after me.”  In fact, everything was going to go much more smoothly if Nate was elsewhere.

            “But it wouldn’t be any fun to go to the beach without you,” Nate whined, his face taking on a nauseatingly pouty look.

            If he was trying to make Arthur feel guilty, it wasn’t going to work.  “You’ll ‘ave better luck pickin’ up girls if you’re alone.”

            “I’m not interested in picking up any girls.”  A predictable reply, and yet no less unnerving for its predictability.

            No matter what Arthur said or suggested, Nate wasn’t having any if it involved them _not_ being joined at the hip.  A situation that had already been frustrating in New York, but was about to become utterly intolerable…

            Still, it seemed, after some argument, to be the easiest course of action to just wait until they were in the hotel, and then to leave his room without letting Nate know about it, getting some privacy at long last.  That plan died a miserable death as soon as they checked into the hotel.  The woman behind the counter gave them two keys with the same room number on them.

            “What…?  Is there some mistake?” Arthur asked, praying there was.

            “No, you only have one room reserved.”

            “How much would it cost to rent a second room?”  Trying to share a room with Nate was not happening.

            “We’re full up,” the woman said.  “I doubt you’ll find a hotel within five miles of the convention centre that _isn’t_ full.”

            Arthur knew she was right, but he didn’t like the idea of admitting it.  Still, he somehow forced himself to nod, and headed for the elevator with his bag.  This was going to complicate things.  A lot.  But maybe it was actually a suite…

            It wasn’t.

            When Arthur opened the door to the hotel, he was horrified to see a tiny room with only a single, queen-sized bed.  He didn’t even put his bag down.  He went straight back down to the counter in the lobby.

            “Is something wrong, sir?” the woman asked as he approached her.

            “There seems to have been a mistake after all,” Arthur told her, trying to keep calm.  “We were given a room with only one bed.”

            “That’s what it says on your reservations, sir.  Is that a problem?”

            “Of course it’s a problem!  It’s a bloody enormous problem!  I can’t share a bed with _him_!”  Nate let out a noise of objection when Arthur pointed at him, but Arthur forced himself to ignore it.

            “Maybe one of you could sleep on the floor,” the woman said.  “We don’t really have any other rooms you could trade for.”

            Arthur must have argued with her for ten minutes, but in the end he had to accept defeat and return to the inadequate facilities of his— _their_ —hotel room.  As Arthur looked at his own miserable face in the mirror above the bed, he noticed a triumphant look on Nate’s.  Irritating little bastard couldn’t have been happier with the situation!

            The sole advantage of the incident was that it had thoroughly reinforced Arthur’s distaste for and distrust of the intern.  No matter what, there was _no_ chance of anything happening between them now, regardless of the boy’s pretty face and shapely bum.

            After ditching his bag, Arthur set out to acquaint himself with the convention centre—attached to a much fancier hotel just down the street—but of course Nate insisted on following him.  Given their situation, how could Arthur have objected?  Their purpose for being there was going to go more smoothly if they _both_ knew the venue.

            After dinner, Arthur took a notebook to the lobby and just sat there.  He told Nate he was people-watching to listen for possible scoops, but of course that was just an excuse to make sure the boy would accept being told to keep his distance.  Arthur actually spent the evening doodling, drawing things as randomly disparate as a flying saucer and the antique pin he was using as a tie tack.  Eventually, of course, he found himself moving from a doodle to a proper sketch, the thorough study of a face he knew better than his own, one that lately seemed to appear before him every time he closed his eyes, sometimes staring hard and seductive, sometimes smiling almost shyly.

            By nine, things in the lobby had grown so quiet that Arthur could no longer continue to claim to be watching the people who weren’t there, so he reluctantly returned to the room.  Nate was sitting on the end of the bed, wearing only his pants as he watched a movie on the telly.

            Arthur grimaced.  “Put some trousers on,” he said.

            “It’s too hot for that.”  The boy fell silent for a moment, then began talking again as Arthur went into his luggage to look for his pyjamas.  “Hey, do you think the hotel provides a porn channel?  I’ve heard some do.”

            “I don’t think it would be very professional to watch it even if they do,” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice level.  What in the world was that child thinking?

            Nate shrugged.  “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” he said.

            “Lucky my name’s not Jack then, isn’t it?”  The question set Arthur’s brain off on an idle, curious fantasy about what sort of ‘play’ Jack Fairy might intersperse with his work.  Then again, Jack Fairy’s ‘work’ entailed a lot of what other people did for play, so perhaps he didn’t even need to; the gruelling behind the scenes slog was self-relieved by the delights of performance and hearing the thrill of the audience.  That was how it had been for the Flaming Creatures, at any rate…

            “It probably wouldn’t be the right _kind_ of porn anyway,” Nate sighed, flipping off the television.  “Which side of the bed do you want?”

            It was a blasé question, one that had to be asked, and which would have been asked in any circumstance where two people had to share a bed together for the first time.  There was nothing in Nate’s voice that suggested the question or its answer held any special meaning to him.  But there was a disturbing glint in his eye that made Arthur shudder in alarm and revulsion.

            “I think I’ll be more comfortable in a chair,” Arthur replied.  Anything to avoid sharing with Nate!

            “You can’t sleep in one of these flimsy little chairs!”

            “The floor, then.”

            Nate scowled at him, crossing his arms with the petulance of a five year old convinced he knew better than his parents.  “You won’t get a good night’s sleep that way, and you won’t be any good on the convention floor tomorrow if you’re not rested.”

            Unfortunately, he had a point.  Arthur couldn’t afford to be an unrested wreck tomorrow.  “I suppose not,” he reluctantly agreed.

            “So which side of the bed do you want?”

            “I’ll take the side closer to the door.”  The better to escape if necessary.

            Nate shrugged, and climbed into the other side of the bed, still without any kit on other than his silk boxers.  Arthur ducked briefly into the loo to change into his pyjamas, then took up a precarious position lying on his side right at the edge of the bed, so that the slightest tremor might make him fall out of bed.

            But that didn’t matter.  None of it mattered.  Nothing that happened in this room could matter.

            What mattered was what was going to happen tomorrow on the convention floor.  Especially what was going to happen tomorrow night…

            Thinking about that was going to keep him from getting to sleep, so Arthur shut his eyes and tried to imagine he was back in London, drifting off to sleep as the Creatures practiced in the next room…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'll be up-front about this: I am, indeed, aware that the 1984 Democratic National Convention was not held in Florida. From what I can tell, the convention usually (always?) is held in New England. But for the purposes of the story, I needed it to be much further from New York; it's too easy to commute between New York and New England by train. I consider this deviation from real history to be acceptable since we're already working in an alternate and slightly dystopian version of 1984; who knows what impact Reynolds and his politics would have had on things like the choice of convention locations?


	2. Chapter 2

            Arthur was partially woken by the feeling of a hand caressing his arse.  It was too early for that; he wasn’t even awake enough to feel hungry, much less to feel horny.  But Ray always woke up in the mood for sex, didn’t he?  When was he going to grow up?  A man in his mid-twenties should have been more mature than the teenager he was shagging.

            “Leave off,” Arthur murmured, swatting the hand away without otherwise stirring.  “’S too early, Ray.”

            “Who’s Ray?”  The light, sweet voice sent a shockwave through Arthur that woke him completely and returned him to the present.  “Do you already have a boyfriend?” Nate asked, looking at Arthur with watery eyes as he rolled over and sat up.

            “No, I—he—it was a long time ag—I wasn’t awake yet when—”  Everything he could think of to say to explain just opened up new doors to worse possibilities.

            “So you’re available,” Nate concluded, smiling widely.  “Good!”  Without waiting for confirmation of any kind, Nate lunged forward and kissed Arthur.

            It wasn’t a gentle kiss, or a passionate one.  It was aggressive, an action determined to get its own way, even if force was required.  With a thrust that bordered on violent, Nate pushed Arthur down onto the bed, and loomed above him, holding him down with more strength than Arthur would have expected the boy to possess.

            Despite the violence of the gesture and his lack of consent, it was a good kiss.  A firm, determined partner had always been a bit of a turn-on for Arthur, and his tastes were suddenly working against him.  His conscious mind wanted nothing to do with Nate, but his body wasn’t as picky, apparently.  Against his will, one of his arms started to reach up to encircle the younger man, even as his eyes slid shut.  One of Nate’s hands released Arthur’s shoulders and slid down his chest to caress him through his pyjamas.

            Only when the fingers on that hand started trying to slip under the waistband of Arthur’s pyjamas did he finally manage to break the spell and shove the boy away again.  “What the fuck is the matter with you?!” Arthur shouted, jerking away so fast that he fell out of the bed.

            “Nothing’s the matter with me,” Nate insisted, giving him a big, wide-eyed stare.  “I’ve just decided that I want you to be my first, that’s all.  Nothing wrong with that.”

            “Except that I’m not interested.”

            “You were sure _acting_ interested a minute ago.”

            Arthur’s face was burning.  He tried to hide his undoubtedly spectacular blush by getting up off the floor, keeping his face aimed down at his feet, in the hopes that Nate couldn’t see anything but the top of his head.  “Any man who—who has any taste for men at all would get caught up in an assault like that one.  That doesn’t mean I’m interested.”

            “Then why do you have a hard-on?”

            “It’s just a semi!” Arthur shouted, even as he unconsciously hid it with his hands.  It really _wasn’t_ fully erect, but…possibly a bit more than just half-way.  How humiliating…

            Nate sighed.  “You’re acting like one of those girls who says she wants it until right after she gets it, and then insists she’s been raped.”

            That did a lot to kill Arthur’s slight arousal.  “I’ve never done one bloody thing to encourage you towards ‘aving sexual interest in me,” Arthur said, pointing a stern gaze into Nate’s unrepentant eyes.  “ _And_ I’ve tried my best to avoid bein’ around you.  You’re the one who won’t let me alone for a minute.”

            “Isn’t it natural to want to be around the person you like?”

            Arthur grimaced.  “Why would you fancy me?  You don’t even know me.”

            “After all this time we’ve spent together, how can you say that?”

            “I’ve never told you one single thing about myself.  Everything’s always been about work.”

            Nate shrugged.  “So you’re all business.  I’m okay with that.  Besides, I do know _some_ things about you.  You like Brian Slade music, you—”

            “Wait, what?”  Arthur’s heart started pounding aggressively against his rib cage, as though it was trying to escape.  “What makes you say that?”

            “You were humming one of his songs in your sleep last night.”

            “Really?”  That seemed improbable, to say the least, but…well, it certainly wasn’t impossible.  He dreamed of his past a lot these days, after all, and he had spent several years as Brian’s devoted fan….

            “And now it turns out you’ve got an ex-boyfriend named Ray,” Nate continued, looking very proud of himself.

            “And you think that means you know something about me?  Two tiny details out of a lifetime?”  Arthur shook his head.  “You’re just a child, and you ‘ave no idea what you’re doin’.  For me to sleep with you would be unethical already because of our positions at the ‘ _Erald_ , but your youth and inexperience would make it immoral as well.  I’m not touchin’ you, and that’s final.”  He grabbed some clean clothes from his bag and headed into the loo to change.

            “And how old were you when _you_ first slept with a man?” Nate shouted at him through the door.  Arthur prayed no one could hear him out in the hall, or in the neighbouring rooms.

            “Not old enough,” Arthur admitted, “but I knew what I was doin’ more than you do.  I knew what I wanted from a much earlier age.”  Sort of.  “Look, Nate, if you really want to experiment with another man, I’m the last person who’d ever tell you that you shouldn’t.  But you really ought to do it with a bloke roughly your own age.  It’d be better and more healthy that way.”

            “Was _your_ first time with a man your own age?” Nate countered

            What was Arthur supposed to say to that?  Of course it wasn’t.  In fact, somehow he’d never had sex with a man his own age.  Every single one of them had been five to ten years older than he was, with a few outliers even older than that.  But he couldn’t bring himself to act like someone of his father’s generation and say “do as I say, not as I do.”

            “Well?” Nate prompted, after Arthur had been silent long enough to finish getting dressed.

            “My sex life is none of your business,” Arthur said.  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and done foolish things that I’d never encourage another person to emulate, even if they didn’t all turn out as badly as they by rights should ‘ave done.”  Hopefully that wasn’t hypocritical…

            Hastily, he shaved, taking advantage of Nate’s—undoubtedly temporary—silence.  Once that was done, Arthur opened the door again, and found that Nate was still standing on the other side, giving him a sullen stare.

            “One mistake I’ve never made,” Arthur told him, “is to try and peevishly act on my own desires when I was supposed to be workin’.  We’re here to cover the convention, not pursue our own personal romantic or sexual agendas.”  Okay, _now_ he was a hypocrite.  “The minute you let this interfere with your work is the minute you can kiss your career goodbye.”

            “Is that a threat?”

            “I didn’t mean it to be, but that’s not a bad idea.  If you do or say anything—to me or anyone else—about this outside of these four walls, maybe I should tell Lou that you don’t ‘ave what it takes to be a  journalist, and recommend that he terminate your internship.”  Arthur shook his head.  “There’s no reason a journalist can’t ‘ave a love life, but you ‘ave to put your work first, because it will not wait for you.  If you want a career where you can set work aside for pleasure, you don’t want to go into journalism.  Except maybe on television, where you’d just be readin’ news someone else prepared for you.”  With his looks, Nate would probably make a good newsreader.

            Nate still looked peevish, making Arthur sigh.

            “You decide what you want to do,” Arthur told him, “but I’m here to do a job, and I’m goin’ to do it, no matter what.  If you don’t want to behave yourself, you can get back on a plane for New York.  I’m sure there are plenty of them leavin’ daily.”  He picked up his satchel and headed for the door.

            “Where are you going?” Nate demanded.

            “To get something to eat before things start happenin’ that I’ll need to cover.  Can’t do a very good job on an empty stomach.”

            “Oh…but…wait, let me come with you!”  Nate started running about the room, trying to get dressed.

            “You can meet me down there,” Arthur said, leaving the room.  A little rude, maybe, but he really didn’t want to be alone with that boy any longer than he had to be.

 

***

 

            Despite that Arthur had wanted them to get to work gathering information right at the crack of ten, nothing was scheduled to happen until late afternoon.  The convention itself didn’t start until the opening speeches at 15:00, so until then they mostly just wandered around in the convention center, talking to other reporters, and the occasional early delegate.

            Nate kept a close eye on the kind of people Arthur talked to, making mental notes of who he approached, and who approached him.  Arthur tended to approach men, mostly men in their thirties, and he seemed especially drawn to the ones who dressed with just a little bit of flash.  It was mostly women who approached him, on the other hand, women of all ages.  But there were also a few men who approached him, usually giving him the same kinds of looks that the women did.  He wasn’t the only gay reporter, then, and they could tell their own kind.  Of course, they all wanted to be introduced to Nate as well, but—to his great disappointment—Arthur showed no sign of hesitation in providing introductions.  Except in one instance:  a fellow New York reporter, about thirty-five years old who talked to Arthur with an intense level of familiarity, and caused Arthur a great deal of discomfort when he asked about Nate.  The obvious conclusion was that this other reporter was an ex-boyfriend of Arthur’s, but sadly he didn’t seem jealous at the idea of his ex being potentially interested in Nate, just embarrassed at the possible misunderstanding.

            Well, no matter.  Nate would see to it that by the time they left, it was no longer a misunderstanding.

            The opening speeches—which were boring, repetitive and naïvely optimistic—lasted until almost 18:30.  As the crowd was dispersing, they were reminded that there would be entertainment provided on the convention floor—where the delegates would meet tomorrow to decide which doomed candidate would have the misfortune to run against Reynolds—starting at 20:00.  The entertainment consisted of an unfunny television comedian and a washed-up singer who hadn’t had a hit since the 1970s.  Thankfully, that meant there was no reason to stick around the convention center, so Nate immediately suggested to Arthur that they should return to their hotel room and call for room service while soaking their aching feet in the bathtub.

            “And miss the show?” Arthur countered, shaking his head.  “Not a chance.  _You_ can go back if you want, but I’m stayin’ here.  There’s plenty to eat around the convention center.”

            Nate tried—repeatedly—to point out that the show was eminently missable, but Arthur simply would not listen to reason.  He probably just didn’t want them to be alone together after this morning’s debacle.  Nate could see, now that it was too late, that he had come on too strong too quickly.  But Arthur had been showing all the signs, so what was the problem?  It didn’t make any sense.  He was probably just trying to hold on to his prudish English propriety.  The longer they were alone together at this convention, the harder it would be for him to keep up that stubborn front.  As soon as he relaxed his guard a little…

            But that time certainly hadn’t come yet.  Arthur followed a small crowd of other reporters to a medium-sized eatery that seemed to be the Floridian equivalent of the mom-and-pop diners of questionable hygiene with which New York City was infested.  As they waited for their mediocre foot and ate it, Nate kept trying to find ways to draw Arthur out a little about himself—not that he had ever had any luck in that regard in the past—but Arthur kept changing the subject, especially in pointing out some young men a few tables over that he said kept looking over at them.  Whenever Nate looked at them, they seemed to be minding their own business, but Arthur was quite insistent that they were, in fact, checking Nate out.

            Arthur drew out their dinner until nearly 19:45, at which point he became quite agitated to get back and get a good position for the show, and kept reprimanding Nate for moving too slowly on the walk back to the convention center.

            “What’s the rush?” Nate asked, after the third time Arthur had pestered him about it.  “There’s not going to be anything to see at this ‘show.’  No one else will even be in the audience.”

            Arthur made a face of disgust, and told Nate to take his time, then took off by himself at a run.  Was that his plan, then?  To irritate Nate until he wouldn’t follow?  What a pointless tactic.  They were still sharing a hotel room, after all.  Even if Nate couldn’t find him again, it would only be for a few hours.  Unless he was expecting to meet up with someone at the show and share _his_ room instead.  That ex-boyfriend of his, maybe…

            Shit.  There was a very real possibility that Arthur was planning exactly that.  The most simple tactics were often the most effective, after all.

            Nate ran after him, hoping to prevent Arthur’s plans from coming to fruition.  Luckily, he was still alone when Nate caught up to him.  By that point, the comedian—Nicholas Ray, whose late-night talk show bordered on the subversive—had already begun his monologue.  The crowd was surprisingly large, and was shockingly easily amused, as most of them laughed riotously at Ray’s every joke.  The only part of the entire act that Nate found funny was the part where Ray claimed that the delegates in that room were going to pick the next President of the United States.

            Wait…Ray…?

            Nate moved closer to Arthur and elbowed him to get his attention.  “This morning, when you woke up mumbling something about a man named Ray…you didn’t mean _him,_ did you?”

            Arthur looked at him with confusion.  “Why the—wasn’t it obvious it was someone I was close to?”

            “Yeah, so?”

            “So who’d use a last name in that situation?  Of course it wasn’t him.”

            “Then who _was_ it?” Nate insisted.  He was suspicious now, and he wasn’t going to let this drop until he had an answer.

            “One of four blokes I was sharin’ a flat with in London for a few years,” Arthur said.  “Now hush.  You’re disruptin’ everyone around us.”

            Did that mean he was fucking all four of his roommates?  No, no, it couldn’t mean that.  That was absurd.  And disgusting.  It was surely only one of them he had been sleeping with; he was too much of a prig for anything more lurid.  And, whoever the other Ray was, at least he was safely in London, where he couldn’t get in the way.

            It didn’t take too much longer before Nicholas Ray finally finished his stultifying act.  In the background behind him, tech people rolled out platforms containing a drum set and several microphones, as Ray put his own microphone back on its stand.  “Now ladies and gentlemen,” Ray said into the microphone, “it’s my privilege to introduce to you one of the living treasures of rock and roll, the greatest man ever to be bred and raised entirely by wolves, the one and only _Curt Wild_!”

            Surprisingly, the entire audience completely lost their shit.  They were acting like teenage girls at a Beatles concert in 1964.  It was absurd.  This was a bunch of adults in suits, and they were more riled up than the audience at a Tommy Stone concert, despite that they were cheering for some drugged-up junky whose music had never been popular even at the height of his career.

            Four men ran onto the stage as the audience continued to act like drunken cheerleaders.  All four men were dressed in black leather, though one of them had forgotten to put his shirt on before running out onto the stage.  One of the men took up a position behind the drum set, and the other two clothed ones went up to the microphones on the raised platforms, where staffers handed them each a guitar.  The shirtless one—who had also forgotten to go to the barber in several years, resulting in stringy blond hair that hung down to his shoulders—ran up towards the central microphone.

            “Say ‘hi’ to your folks for me,” Ray said into the microphone, then howled like a wolf.

            The blond flipped him off with both hands.  Instead of laughing or being shocked at such a crude display, the audience cheered some more.  Just what the fuck was going on here?  The man on the stage was clearly a barbarian.  Why were all these dignified, intelligent people accepting him so readily—so _eagerly_?

            As Nicholas Ray left the stage, the blond took the microphone back off its stand and brought it much too close to his face, as if he planned on kissing the thing.  “I know I don’t often speak my political views,” he said, the closeness of the microphone amplifying his voice into a boom, “but it’s time I made them known!  I’m here tonight because I want to help you make history tomorrow and in the months to come.  Let’s work together to prove Orwell wrong!  Make 1984 the year we say ‘No!’ to Big Brother!”

            The audience roared its approval.  To Nate’s horror, he realized that Arthur, too, had let out a whoop in response to the singer’s call.

            “Hey, what was all that you were saying earlier about being professional?” Nate demanded of him.  “That’s not professional—not at all!”

            Arthur didn’t even acknowledge him.  He was staring up at the stage as if that blond—that Curt Wild—had stolen away his soul just by coming out onto that stage.

            As the music started—guitar-heavy, with relatively non-melodic vocals and lyrics that were 99% unintelligible—Nate began to suspect that something really _was_ going on here.  He was the only one in the crowd who wasn’t caught up in the performance somehow.  Most of them were swaying to the beat, or screaming incoherently—especially the women in their thirties—and Arthur was still staring intently ahead of him, as if he was physically incapable of looking away from the half-naked blond on the stage.  Perhaps there had been a hypnotic light show in the opening minutes of the comedian’s monologue that he had missed.  Brainwashing was the only logical reaction to the way the crowd was behaving.

            There was probably something reinforcing it if they really _were_ brainwashed.  Some subtle signal being played underneath the music, subliminal messages or something.  Yes, undoubtedly.  And Arthur was so badly affected because he had that British weak will that had been bred into them by so many decades of rule by women.  Or maybe it was because there was a shirtless man gyrating in front of him.  Most of the rest of crowd was heterosexual, after all, and wouldn’t be so badly impacted.

            Nate tried to interpose himself physically between Arthur and the man on the stage, but Arthur just stepped aside to restore his direct line of sight, all without saying a word.  Possibly without even blinking.

            Alarmed, Nate hummed his favorite Tommy Stone songs to himself as a mantra to protect him from whatever brainwashing had so destroyed the minds of everyone around him.  He made a few more half-hearted attempts to break Arthur out of the spell, but it was clear that there was no hope of that until the music ended.  If for no other reason than that Nate would never be able to produce enough volume to reach Arthur through that ear-splitting racket.

            Once he gave up on salvaging what little was left of Arthur’s mind, Nate started watching the crowd.  Despite his earlier thoughts to the contrary, they weren’t actually the same crowd that had been listening to the opening speeches.  Most everyone over the age of 45 seemed to have left.  There were just as many people, though, if not more, so additional bodies had to have come from _somewhere_.  Ah, but maybe that was it?  Maybe some of these people were actually paid audience members so that the performers would think they were more popular than they were?  Or perhaps they had been brought in by the band to fool record labels into thinking this out-of-touch music was popular.

            While that seemed plausible, overall, it rather counteracted the need for the brainwashing that had obviously taken place.

            Nate tried to work through what little he knew of what was going on, to figure out the explanation for what he was seeing.  First, the known facts.

            Nicholas Ray was an unpopular television comedian with a liberal-bias program that featured fake news and daily attacks on President Reynolds.  No one with any sense or discernment found his antics amusing, and it was a mystery how his show stayed on the air.  But if there was anyone who _could_ appreciate his defective sense of humor, it would be people attending the Democratic National Convention.

            Curt Wild was a singer better known for his drug addictions than his music.  The last time one of his songs made the Top 10, Nate had still been in high school.  Most people insisted that Wild was a homosexual, but there had been a scandal just last year about some model or actress or something claiming to be pregnant with his child, so there was clearly a lack of confirmed information there, one way or another.  His music lacked the sharpness and pep that truly popular music possessed.

            Both were performers who would get little to no approval from a normal crowd, and yet were being ludicrously lauded by _this_ crowd.

            Using his training, Nate tried to sift through the facts to find out what was going on, but he didn’t come up with any possible explanations other than brainwashing.  Maybe that meant that his training was inadequate to the task?

            Still hoping for immediate answers, Nate tried to apply the techniques Arthur had imparted to him over the last month.  That meant he needed more information.  Not so much about the performers, but about the crowd so taken in by them.  Nate scanned the crowd again, but didn’t get much out of the effort.  There were women in the crowd wearing Curt Wild T-shirts—probably part of his entourage—but they made up a relatively small percentage of the crazily cheering audience.  Most of the rest of the crowd was well-dressed, suits or at least Dockers; very few T-shirt and jeans combinations here, outside of those women who were obviously groupies.

            No matter how he looked at the available evidence, this crowd did not seem like it should be behaving in this manner.  Nate moved forward as best he could, so that he could get a better look at Arthur’s face.  Maybe that would give him a clue as to what was going on.  If it was the slack-jawed stare of the lobotomized…

            But it wasn’t.  It was powerful, intense, and gave every outward evidence that Arthur was entirely in control of his faculties.  The sheer sexual heat of the gaze indicated to Nate that Arthur’s focus had nothing to do with the music currently being played, nor even the scene playing out before him on the stage.  He wasn’t looking with his eyes; he was looking with his pants.

            Didn’t say much for his taste in men, but bad taste was more easily conquered than brainwashing.

            That still didn’t explain the rest of the crowd, though.  But maybe they just all had really bad taste in music.  They had bad taste in comedy and politics, after all.

            Nate continued to hum to himself throughout the concert, just in case there _was_ something subliminal going on with the music.  As soon as the music ended and the blond retreated from the stage—and the cries for an encore began to die down—Nate put a hand on Arthur’s arm.  “Let’s get back to the room,” he said, trying to sound vulnerable rather than commanding.  “I’m worried we’ll be mugged if we’re out on the streets much later than this.”

            Arthur looked at him as if he was insane.  “We’re not in New York,” he pointed out.  “Look, those two blokes are just over there,” he added, indicating the two young men from the diner.  “Why don’t you go chat them up?  I’m positive they’re interested.”

            “Because I want—”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll give you the room to yourself tonight,” Arthur added, before shaking off Nate’s hand and pushing his way through the crowd, headed towards the stage.

            Where did he think he was going?  Nate set off in pursuit right away, but Arthur’s extra inch or so of height was apparently aiding him in picking his way through the crowd; he reached the door that led to the backstage area well ahead of Nate.  He could see Arthur talking to the guard on the door, but by the time Nate actually arrived at the door, it had already closed behind Arthur.

            “I’m with him,” Nate told the guard, with his most winning smile.

            “Nice try,” the guard said, shaking his head.  “Scram, kid.”

            “Look, it’s really important that I not let Arthur out of my sight,” Nate said, trying to reason with the man.  He tried every line he could think of—from a message to be delivered from an ailing relative to national security—but nothing made the guard budge an inch.  Eventually, Nate had to give in and bribe him.  Took much more than it should have, too.

            The delay had been long enough that the hallway on the other side of the door was empty when Nate finally got there.  He had no idea which of these doors might hide Arthur from him.

            No, that wasn’t true, was it?  After the way he’d been staring, Arthur must have been there looking for the blond—even though he’d had a much better-looking, younger blond standing right next to him, willing and eager!—so all Nate had to do was find a door that indicated it contained Curt Wild, and he’d find Arthur.

            These doors, whatever they were, weren’t usually used as dressing rooms.  They were probably hotel rooms, in fact.  They all had paper signs over the numbers, with names on them, indicating which performer was using them, or what other use they were being put to, including security guards and instrument storage.  Not far from “instruments” was the door labeled “Curt Wild.”  And Nate could hear voices from the other side.

            “—you here,” an unfamiliar voice was saying.  It was a man’s voice, American accent, from the northern Midwest.  “You’re pretty far from home.”

            “So are you,” Arthur’s voice answered, with a light, almost lilting laugh.

            “Suppose I am,” the other man answered.  It was presumably Curt Wild, but his speaking voice sounded a bit different than his shouting-into-a-microphone voice.

            “You…uh…you’re still as amazing as you were nine years ago…” Arthur’s voice said, with a nervous stammer Nate had never heard from him before.  He usually sounded so self-assured.

            The other man laughed.  “You sure you want to say that before you’ve even experienced me again?” he asked.  Again?

            Nate could hear Arthur’s voice saying something in breathy response, but with the door in the way, he couldn’t make out the words.  The words, whatever they were, were followed by near silence, and a muffled noise that Nate worried might be the sound of bodies moving closer together, or even rubbing up against each other in embrace.

            “Ah, wait,” Curt Wild’s voice said.  “I’m still sweaty from the performance.”

            “I don’t care about that,” Arthur insisted.  Shouldn’t he care if the other man was sweaty and disgusting before they even started?  The man had been dripping with sweat by the time he left the stage; Nate wouldn’t have even wanted to be in the same _room_ with him.

            “Well, I do.  I’m gonna take a shower.  You can wait for me in the hotel bar, or you could wait in here, or—” Wild paused, and even through the door the pause felt lecherous, “—you could come join me in the shower.”

            “No…” Nate said involuntarily, drowning out whatever Arthur said in reply.

            “Thought so,” Curt Wild said, a disgusting note of triumph in his voice telling Nate that Arthur had agreed to his perverted demand.

            This was _not_ going to happen if Nate could put a stop to it!  He tried the door, but of course it was locked.  So he started banging on it with his whole fist, just as hard and loud as he could.

            “Fuck off!” Wild’s voice shouted from within.  “I’m busy!”

            Nate didn’t stop pounding on the door until he heard the sound of a shower running inside the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I really have no idea how one of these conventions works. I mean, I know the basics -- I've seen the footage of the floor from which the delegations cast their votes -- but I have no idea if any of what happened in the second half of the chapter is in any way compatible with reality. But this is what I needed to have happen for the story, so...I apologize if I've made horrendous gaffes. Please laugh it off as a weird part of the alternate timeline.


	3. Chapter 3

            Arthur leaned back against the corner of the shower, letting both walls prop him up as the steady stream of warm water poured across his body, washing away years of stress.  Good god, but he had needed this!

            Curt was already stepping out of the shower before Arthur had recovered his strength enough to stand without the wall supporting him.  By the time he could shut the water off and get out of the shower as well, Curt had already got his trousers back on.  He gave Arthur an apologetic smile.  “Uh, sorry…” he said.  It was the soft, gentle voice he had used that night on the roof, after they had made love, so different from the harsher voice he used to speak to the press.

            “About what?” Arthur asked.  There certainly hadn’t been anything wrong with Curt’s performance!  It had been so sublime that it had bordered on the mystical.

            Curt ran a hand through his damp hair.  “I’d meant to wait until we could go back up to my room,” he said.  “You know…’cause I’ve got condoms up there…”

            Arthur felt his face heat up.  It had been long enough since the last time he’d been sexually active that the whole condom issue hadn’t even occurred to him.  He tried to hide his embarrassment by shoving his still-wet body back into his clothes.  But then a thought occurred to him.  “You don’t meant that you’re…?”

            “I don’t think so,” Curt assured him, but his voice didn’t sound as assured as it should have.  “I’ve usually been pretty careful.  I do know some guys who’ve died, though.  Mostly not anyone I’ve ever fucked, but…”  He sighed, and shook his head.  “I’d say you could send me your medical bills if I got you infected, but if that happened, I’d probably already be dead by the time you were showing symptoms, so—”

            “Don’t say things like that!” Arthur shouted, cutting him off.  “Don’t ruin something so beautiful by talkin’ about death.  Please.”

            Curt laughed, but it was a nervous sound.  “Sorry.  I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it,” he offered.

            Idly, Arthur wondered if he meant to make up for the depressing line of conversation, or to make up for the possibility of having exposed Arthur to AIDS.  It seemed rather a cheap apology for the latter.  “Sure,” Arthur agreed, as he pulled his shirt on.  He’d already eaten once, but he wasn’t mad enough to refuse anything that Curt offered him.

            Curt smiled widely, with such genuine happiness that it made Arthur’s heart ache.  Had he really expected to be rejected?  It seemed absurd…  “There’s a great club not far from here,” Curt said.  “Maybe five, six minutes by cab.  Good food, great drinks, nice atmosphere.  We can go there.”

            Arthur nodded, then sat down on a nearby chair to get his shoes back on.  Once they were both fully dressed again, Curt gave him a quick kiss, and led the way out of the room.  To Arthur’s surprise, there was a man standing just on the other side.

            “Oh, Mr. Wild, I’ve been wondering if I should knock,” the man said.  From his uniform, he worked security for the convention centre.  His eyes strayed to Arthur briefly, but he didn’t say anything about the unexpected extra party.

            “Something wrong?” Curt asked.  His voice was brusque again, his wild persona emerging again.

            “There was a kid sniffing around your door.  Couldn’t give a good reason for being back here.  Sounded like he bribed a guard to get in.”

            Bloody hell…  “Young man, about twenty?” Arthur asked.  “Short, limp, blond hair, face like a girl’s, wearing a press pass?”

            “That’s him,” the guard agreed.

            “You know him?” Curt asked.

            Arthur nodded, sighing deeply.  “He must ‘ave followed me.  I’m sorry.”

            “Is he dangerous?” the guard asked.

            “I doubt it.”  Not to normal people, at any rate.

            The guard nodded, and departed.  “So, who is he?” Curt asked.  “Why was he following you?”

            “It’s sort of a long story…”

            “Think he’s waiting for us out there?”  Curt indicated the door back to the auditorium.

            “Probably,” Arthur sighed.  “He’s the persistent type, I’m afraid.”

            Curt scowled.  “Maybe room service would be better than going clubbing, then.”

            Arthur tried not to grin.  Curt wasn’t _necessarily_ offering more sex.  It wouldn’t be a good idea to get his hopes up.  “That’s probably best.”

            Curt nodded, and led the way deeper into the hotel attached to the convention centre, away from the auditorium.  They remained silent until they got into an elevator, and Curt pressed the button for the top floor.  “So who is he?” he asked.

            “His name’s Nate,” Arthur started, before launching into a quick summary of who and what Nate was.  Fortunately, they got to Curt’s massive penthouse suite before Arthur had to explain about Nate’s attempted seduction that morning.

            “If he’s so pretty, why’d you refuse him?” Curt asked.

            “Is that even a question?”

            “Why wouldn’t it be?”

            Arthur frowned.  “Curt, I only agreed to accept this assignment because my editor told me you’d be performin’ on the first night.  I came to see _you_.  The boy’s pretty, but there’s no substance to him.  He doesn’t compare to you in the least.”

            Curt smiled, and gave him a deep kiss, then led him over to the king-sized bed.  “What do you want to eat?” he asked.

            “Oh, uh, anything.  I’m not fussy.”  Or, in fact, hungry.  Except for Curt.

            After consulting a room service menu next to the phone, Curt called down to the front desk to order a ridiculously lavish meal, including steak, caviar and champagne.  “Oh?” Curt said, after a lengthy silence.  “That’s pretty fucking early to close the kitchen.”  He sighed.  “So what _is_ available?”  This pause wasn’t so long.  “All right, I’m not picky.  I guess a large meat-lover’s, thin crust.  And a six pack of beers.”  Another brief pause.  “Who the fuck would drink champagne with pizza?  That’s messed up.  Beer’s fine.”

            “The kitchen’s closed, but they have pizza?” Arthur asked, after Curt hung up the phone.

            “Nah, but the girl at the desk said she’d call a pizza place that delivers.  The bar’s still open, but the kitchen’s closed.  I don’t get it.”  Curt sighed, shaking his head.

            “Maybe they ran out of food early because the hotel’s so full,” Arthur suggested.

            “Yeah, sounds about right,” Curt chuckled, sitting down beside him.  “So what are you gonna do about this intern?”

            Arthur shrugged.  “I’m not sure there’s much I _can_ do.  Someone talked Lou into booking us in a single room—with only one bed!  I can only avoid him for so long.”

            “But he’ll get that you’re not available now, right?”

            “I doubt it.”  Nate did not strike Arthur as the type to give up easily.  Or at all.

            Curt frowned, and ran his fingers through the back of Arthur’s wet hair.  “We can worry about him later,” he said.  “How’s life been treating you?  I kept thinking we might see each other in passing somewhere, but…it’s been what, four months?”

            “Since you nearly choked me with antique jewellery?  Yes, almost to the day.”

            Curt laughed uncomfortably.  “Haven’t you ever done anything on impulse before?”

            “Of course, but not usually anything quite so…”  Arthur’s voice trailed off, and he shook his head.  “I’ve been very busy workin’,” he said, going back to the original question.  “It’s been rare I’ve had any time to myself for anything.”

            “Why’s it been so crazy?”

            “The election.  It’ll be like this until November.”  Arthur remembered that well enough from four years ago.  It was this sort of madness that made him wonder why he had ever chosen this profession in the first place.

            “Don’t tell me you’ve been too busy to get laid,” Curt said.

            Arthur laughed.  “That’s not so easy for a normal man as it is for a rock star.”

            “It’d be easy for you.”

            “It’s not.”  Arthur sighed.  “Until today, I hadn’t had any sex for…I guess…almost four years.”  As best he could recall, the last time was with a rather uninteresting bloke in the gents’ at a bar that wasn’t _exactly_ a gay bar, but close enough that they’d felt safe having at it in an unlocked toilet cubicle.  They’d both gotten horribly drunk in despair at the way the election had turned out, and one thing had led to another, but it hadn’t led to exchanging names or phone numbers.

            “Shit, really?”

            “Never seemed to ‘ave the time to go looking for anyone.  And ‘aving a shag with someone I meet through work isn’t usually a good idea.”

            Curt turned Arthur’s head so that he was looking straight at Curt’s grinning face.  “No wonder your whole body seemed so tense,” he commented, before giving Arthur a brief kiss.  “So much built up stress…”  Another kiss, much deeper and more involved.

            By the time the pizza and beers arrived, they were both down to their drawers, and so painfully aroused that Curt announced they should fuck first and _then_ eat the pizza.  Arthur had no complaints about that.

 

***

 

            Shannon was woken by the sound of the telephone ringing.  Who was so inconsiderate as to call at this hour?  It was not yet seven in the morning, after all.  Decent people simply didn’t ring anyone up so very early.  She allowed her irritation to bleed over into her voice as she answered.

            “Please forgive the inconvenience, Miss Hazelbourne,” a man’s voice said, “but this was the only opportunity I was going to have to call.  Unless you would have preferred to hear from me around midnight last night.”

            “Seven in the morning is better than midnight,” Shannon assured him, “but who is this?”  She suspected it was probably that man she had hired to protect Tommy, but she couldn’t be positive.  And the last thing she wanted to do was to say anything incriminating.

            “It’s Reardon, Miss Hazelbourne.”

            “Good.  You’ve done it already?”  That would be a relief!  She’d barely relaxed in months, and Tommy was on the edge of a nervous breakdown from worry.

            “That depends, ma’am.  Is the point just to prove the man’s a homosexual?”

            “No.  Don’t change the plan; it was very carefully designed.”

            Reardon sighed.  “It’s hardly a matter of choice, ma’am.  The subject is not taking the bait as expected.”

            “That doesn’t fit the profile _your agency_ provided for him.  They assured me he is quite flaming.”

            “The problem is that this plan is not operating in a vacuum, ma’am.  The subject decided he’d rather fuck a forty-something singer than the bait.”

            “Watch your language,” Shannon said sharply.  “I’m a lady, remember.  And your employer.”

            Reardon sighed.  “Yes, ma’am.  But won’t incriminating him with this singer do the job well enough?”

            Shannon couldn’t imagine that it would.  Unless, perhaps, the singer was married.  But no, that wouldn't necessarily help, either.  Perhaps if he had small children whose mother he was betraying…  “Tell me about this singer,” she said.

            “Not much to tell.  Washed-up addict from the ‘70s.”

            The air seemed to vanish from Shannon’s lungs.  “Are you sure he’s in his forties?” she asked.

            “He looked about forty to me,” Reardon said.  “I suppose he could be late thirties.  What’s that matter?”

            It might matter quite a great deal, but…  “Depending on who he is, it might not be in anyone’s best interests to smear his name.  What _is_ his name?”

            “Wild,” Reardon said, confirming Shannon’s worst suspicions.  “Curt Wild.  He’s a known fag.”

            Tommy _shouldn’t_ still have any affection left over for that American barbarian, but…what if he did?  “He’s known to be bisexual,” Shannon corrected him, “and his publicised relationships of late have all been with women.  The public might not believe reports of him going back to men, and even if they do, it would be far from shocking.  We want something that will mar the man’s name for life.  Sleeping with Curt Wild will not achieve that.”  She paused a moment.  “Unless he’s coercing Wild back into drugs, that is.”

            “I didn’t know he was off them.”

            “He’s supposed to be, yes.”  Much to Shannon’s distress, Tommy had looked rather pleased by a news report on how well Curt had cleaned himself up.

            “So what do you want me to do?” Reardon asked.

            “Go ahead and get evidence of the subject’s dalliance with Curt Wild, but do nothing with it unless it contains proof that he’s also prodding him back into his former drug addiction.  We’ll keep it on hand as insurance.  Meanwhile, continue the original plan.”

            “Yes, Miss Hazelbourne,” Reardon said, with a barely contained sigh.

            After hanging up the phone, Shannon rose from her bed and began her morning toilette.  Then she headed into the kitchen and began preparing breakfast.  She glanced over at the door to Tommy’s bedroom, and bit her lip.  If only things were going more smoothly, she could finally relieve his worries and assure him that the reporter who had guessed his secret was ruined, and would never be able to expose him!  But as it stood…

            …all she could do would be to ask him a few subtle questions to see if he was still as attached to that lousy, miserable Curt Wild as she thought he was…

 

***

 

            Arthur woke to the delightful feeling of Curt’s arm wrapped around his waist, and his body pressed up against Arthur’s back.  If only he was free to act on his desires—if only they could make love again right away!  But he had to go back to his own room and change into clean clothes, and then get down to the convention floor to cover the delegates placing their votes.  From what he’d read of these conventions, covering it was going to be hell:  so many human bodies packed in that auditorium that it would provoke an attack of agoraphobia in even the most extroverted of individuals, so much body heat in the room that the air would be stifling, and so much noise that no one could hear themselves think.

            He would much rather stay here in Curt’s bed than go down there and put up with that shite.  But what choice did he have?  He couldn’t afford to lose his job.

            Miserably, Arthur slipped out of the bed, and headed to the loo.  By the time he was finished, Curt was on his feet—still desirably naked—and talking into the phone.  “Yeah, for the whole rest of the convention.  That’s not a problem, is it?  You haven’t rented the room to someone else?”  He paused, listening.  “No, don’t bother them about it.  I’ll pay for the new nights.  Yeah, I’ll bring down a credit card in a little while.”  He hung up the phone, then turned back toward the bed.  Seeing Arthur standing there looking at him, Curt released a sheepish little smile.  “I thought the best thing to do was to get you out of that room,” he said.  “So you can stay here with me for the rest of the convention.”

            “Curt…”  He was staying so many extra days just for Arthur’s sake?

            “Of course, you’ll have to pay me back with your body,” Curt added, with a roguish grin.

            Arthur laughed.  “You’re shelterin’ me _and_ givin’ me sex?  I can’t imagine what I’ve done right to deserve such princely treatment!”

            Curt laughed, too, and pulled him close for a deep kiss that promised to lead to much more than just kissing.  But Arthur had to pull out of it all too soon.

            “I’ve got a lot of work to do today,” he pointed out, “and I’ll want to fetch my things out of the other room sooner rather than later.”

            Curt sighed.  “Yeah.  There any openings in your schedule when we can see each other during the day?”

            “We could probably meet for lunch,” Arthur told him.  “I’ll check my schedule when I bring the bag over, and let you know when I’ll be free to eat.”

            “Okay.”  Curt gave him one more kiss, then went into the loo himself.  He was still in there when Arthur left the suite and headed back towards his own hotel.  His former hotel.

            The initial buzz of joy at being granted so many nights in Curt’s bed faded about the same time Arthur stepped out onto the sidewalk.  That Curt had called down to the desk to extend his stay had seemed wonderfully flattering at first, but on thinking about it, Arthur realised that it meant something else, too:  it meant that Curt had originally intended this to be another one-night stand.  He was only making it something more than that out of pity.  He didn’t care about Arthur, and he certainly didn’t want a relationship.

            Curt just felt sorry for him, and had decided that if he was going to play the Good Samaritan, he might as well get a little more sexual pleasure out of it.

            Arthur hadn’t gotten much past that depressing thought by the time he returned to the room Lou had booked for him.  On entering the room, he found Nate sitting in a chair, facing the door.  His expression was already sour, but it turned into a vicious scowl as soon as Arthur entered the room.

            “Just where the hell have you been?!” Nate demanded.

            “I told you I’d give you the room to yourself,” Arthur reminded him.

            “And where were you?”

            “I was with an old flame,” Arthur said.  Not the most accurate description, but not strictly wrong, either.

            “What about me?”

            “I told you that you should chat up those blokes we saw earlier.  Why didn’t you?”

            “Because I want _you_.”

            Arthur grimaced.  “I’m flattered, but real life doesn’t work that way, Nate.  You can’t just tell someone to sleep with you.  They ‘ave to want it, too.”

            “Why don’t you want it?  I’m younger and better looking than him!”

            Arthur lifted an eyebrow.  “Him?” he repeated.

            “You’re not gonna claim you were with a girl,” Nate said.  “Not after I _saw_ you go backstage.  Not after I _heard_ you flirting with that washed-up hack singer!”

            “So you admit you were the one who bribed his way past the guard on the door.”

            Nate just scowled at him as Arthur picked up his bag and made sure all his things were in it.  “What are you doing now?” Nate asked, eyeing him warily.

            “Curt’s lettin’ me stay with him for the rest of the convention,” Arthur told him.  No point in lying about it; the boy would figure it out quickly enough even if he could think of a suitable lie.  “So you can ‘ave this room to yourself.  There’s lots of blokes about who like men; most of them would be thrilled to ‘ave a chance at you.”

            “But I don’t want _them_.”

            “And _I_ don’t want _you_ , so someone’s obviously got to end up not gettin’ what he wants,” Arthur replied.  “Curt and I ‘ave a history, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s the finest man in the world, so don’t bother tryin’ to claim you’re in any way ‘better’ than he is.”

            “You’re doing this just to spite me,” Nate insisted, as Arthur headed for the door.

            “I’m doin’ this for myself.  That first night I had with Curt back in ’75 was the greatest night of my life.  I’m not passin’ up a single minute I can spend with him.”

            Nate leapt to his feet.  “You mean that old man’s the one you lost your virginity to?!” he exclaimed.  “But he’s way older than you are!  What happened to all that shit you said yesterday!?”

            Arthur sighed.  “If you must know, Ray was my first, and that was a bit over a year before I met Curt.  I’d become quite accomplished at givin’ myself out to all and sundry by then, something I’m not exactly proud of, and which I recommend against anyone else ever tryin’.  Better to ‘ave serious relationships than a string of brief, meaningless encounters.”

            “But…”  Nate’s objection died in his throat even before Arthur opened the door.  Maybe the boy was finally giving up?

            As Arthur carried his suitcase back to Curt’s hotel, he found himself turning the conversation over and over in his head.  He felt as though he’d brushed against something wonderful, even if he couldn’t quite grasp it.

            Curt let him back into the room as soon as Arthur knocked on the door.  “Hey, you didn’t change after all?” he asked, sounding confused.

            “Nate was bein’ argumentative, so I thought it best to get out of there while I could,” Arthur said, smiling.  “I’ll change now.”

            Curt nodded, and handed him a key.  “Here, I got them to give me another key for the room.  In case you need something when I’m not in.  Or if I’m in the john or something.”

            Arthur took the key, feeling a warmth spread through him as he did so.  It was just the key to a hotel room, not to Curt’s flat—imagine being in Curt’s flat!—but he wasn’t insensible to the honour.

            And then it hit him.  What he had almost realised during the argument with Nate.

            Yes, Curt had only intended this as a one-night stand.  But it was something more than that now.  And even if Curt still planned on it being nothing but meaningless sex, it could become more than that.  Arthur just had to find a way to bring them closer, to make it _mean_ something.

            Surely if they were going to spend several more nights together, he’d have the opportunity to open up the conversation that would deepen things, and lead them towards a proper relationship.  It was just going to take a little work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the line where Arthur half-jokingly refers to Curt choking him with antique jewelry...I know I read another fic here with a very similar line (though it was early in my time on AO3, so I don't remember which one, sorry!). I'm not trying to copy or rip the author off with that line. It's just...what else was he going to say?


	4. Chapter 4

            Arthur had been forced to work with a sullen Nate all morning, but he managed to slip away as noon approached, allowing him to head towards his rendezvous with Curt unencumbered.  Unfortunately, he also ended up arriving several minutes early.  But that was all right; it made their luncheon in the hotel’s rather posh restaurant a little less like a waste of precious time he should be using to work.  He hadn’t been seated at the table for more than two minutes before Arthur had gotten his notebook out of his satchel and started jotting down an outline of the most important of the morning’s events.  He would, after all, have to dictate an article over the phone to someone back at the _Herald_ office as soon as the convention closed for the day.

            He was still working when he heard Curt’s voice say “Sorry I’m late.”

            Arthur rose to his feet immediately, turning to look at Curt, his heart beating with what actually felt rather like guilt, though that made no sense.  Curt’s expression changed slightly as he caught sight of Arthur’s face.  Shite, his glasses!  He’d forgotten to take them off!

            Hastily, Arthur reached up to remove the hideous black glasses he needed to be able to read or write comfortably.  But before he could, one of Curt’s hands found his and closed around them, while the other one slipped onto the back of Arthur’s neck.  “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Curt said, with a gentle smile that filled Arthur with a soft, warm happiness.

            Curt’s hand pulled Arthur’s face towards his own, and before Arthur could object to the fact that they were in a very crowded restaurant, Curt was kissing him, deep and passionate.  It was such a magnificent kiss that Arthur couldn’t think—he could barely even breathe—while it was going on.  But as soon as Curt’s tongue left his mouth and their lips parted, Arthur began to regain his faculties, and sat down again, his face as hot as if it was on fire.

            Curt sat down beside him, looking hurt.  “Are you mad at me?”

            “No, I—I’m not cross, it’s just—we’re in public,” Arthur said, taking off his glasses as an excuse not to look at Curt’s face.  “Who knows how many people were lookin’…”

            Curt shrugged, with a morose sigh.  “I guess you get used to it after a while.”

            “I doubt I’ll ever be used to such a thing.”  And Arthur certainly didn’t appreciate the reminder of the photographs of Curt and Brian kissing that used to have such a powerful impact on him.  Arthur tried to distract himself by putting his notebook away in his satchel, and his glasses in his pocket.

            “How long have you worn glasses?” Curt asked.

            “They’re just for readin’,” Arthur said.  There was nothing wrong with wearing glasses.  Millions of people wore them all the time.  There was no reason to be embarrassed, even if that particular pair _was_ spectacularly ugly.

            Curt laughed.  “You don’t have to be ashamed of them.  I think they’re sexy.”

            Arthur looked up at him with shock.  “You what?” 

            Curt produced a quiet little smile, and looked down at the empty place before him.  “They’re sort of old-fashioned frames, I guess.  Like the kind smart guys in the ‘60s used to wear.”

            Arthur sighed.  “Needin’ glasses and bein’ intelligent ‘ave nothing to do with each other.”  No matter what Hollywood implied otherwise.

            “Maybe not,” Curt admitted.  “But the only guy I knew back then who wore them was really smart.  God, did I have a thing for him!”

            A moment’s surprise gave way to a pleased smile.  It was hard to imagine Curt Wild as someone who would ever fancy another person without simply acting on it.  But there had to have been a time when that was the case, a time before he’d become the famed rock god he was by the time Arthur first heard of him.  “Who was he?”

            “Teacher at my school,” Curt said, with a weak laugh.  “Before I escaped that hellhole I grew up in.”

            “What did he teach?”

            “English.”  Curt chuckled.  “He had the miserable task of trying to make a bunch of inbred trailer park kids read high literature, even though half the class was barely literate.  But he always showed up in class with a smile, and treated us like we were real people.  The rest of the staff at that school—and the students from the town—treated us like the white trash we were, but he always had a smile and a kind word.  And he looked hot as hell all the time.  I was probably the only _boy_ in class with a crush on him, but I know all the girls had one.”

            “Did anything ever happen?” Arthur asked, trying to find a way to subtly shift the conversation so that Curt would stop calling himself ‘trash.’

            Curt shook his head.  “Nothing like what I wanted to happen.  I told him how I felt once, but of course he was entirely straight.”  He sighed sadly.  “I took it pretty hard.”

            “How old were you?”

            “Fifteen.  Hadn’t been that long since my parents and their doctors had given up on the shock treatments—you know about that, right?”

            Arthur nodded.  “Cecil Drake told me.”  Though the question of how Cecil knew sometimes ate at Arthur’s native curiosity; logically, he should never have met Curt, let alone learned the terrible secrets of his past.  Then again, there were a lot of mysteries about Cecil, starting with the biggest and most obvious one of what he was doing in America at all.  “When I was tryin’ to research that article about…”

            Curt sighed.  “Less said about that, the better.”

            “Yeah.”  Arthur cleared his throat.  “Did you get in trouble?” he asked, trying to move the conversation back away from any hint of Brian.  “The teacher didn’t tell your parents, did he?”

            Curt smiled.  “No, he wasn’t that kind of teacher.  He was a real ‘students first’ type.  I skipped school for a couple days after he turned me down, and he actually came looking for me.  Found me in the back room of a nearby pool hall, with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other, but he didn’t say shit about that, just said he’d been worried about me, and asked me if there was somewhere we could talk in private.”  His smile faded.  “I was in pretty bad shape.  Thought there was really something wrong with me, you know?  Kept saying things like how I knew everyone hated me, that I knew I was sick, all this shit that was exactly what my parents wanted me to think.  All of a sudden, he up and hugged me.  ‘Course, that gave me a hard-on, which was pretty fucking embarrassing for both of us, but he pretended he didn’t see it, just gave me this big speech about how there was nothing wrong with loving other men, and I shouldn’t let anyone tell me otherwise, and how I wasn’t sick, it was anyone who hated me for being who I was that was sick.  I wanted to believe him, but after what my own blood had done to me, it wasn’t as easy as that.  I did end up giving in and promising I’d go back to school the next day, though.”

            “But that wasn’t the end of it, I presume?” Arthur asked, as Curt took a drink from his water glass.

            “Nah.  By the next day, he’d seen my medical record—or maybe he already had—so he knew what my folks had done to me.  He asked to talk to me after class, and I thought maybe he was mad at me after all, but instead he gave me all these books, told me reading them would be proof that there was nothing wrong with me.”

            “What books?”

            “ _The Iliad_ , Plato’s _Symposium_ , some Virgil, a few of Shakespeare’s sonnets, a lot of Oscar Wilde, that sort of thing.”  Curt smiled, and shook his head.  “I had trouble getting through a lot of it, but…it did make me feel better about myself.  Especially because it wasn’t so black and white, you know?  Achilles didn’t _just_ love Patroclus; he loved Briseis, too.  Or Polyxena.  Or that Amazon.  He got around.  Same with Aeneas; he had a wife, he had a mistress, _and_ he had a boyfriend.  Oscar Wilde went to jail for loving other men, but he had a wife and kids, too.  And according to that teacher, Lord Byron would fuck anything that moved.”

            Arthur almost choked on his water.  “That’s not quite how I’ve usually heard it put.”  He smiled, and shook his head.  “I do see what you mean, though.”  That sort of thinking was part of what had led Arthur to become so obsessed with Brian Slade back in 1972, after all.  “Did you ever try to contact him again?  After you became famous?”

            Curt chuckled.  “Never even occurred to me,” he admitted.  “I wouldn’t want to; what if he’d changed his mind, and decided men loving each other was wrong after all?  Or if he was disappointed by what I’d done with myself?”

            Arthur bit his lip.  With all the drugs Curt had done at the height of his career, it would have been all too easy for someone to become disappointed in him.  “How could he be disappointed with you for being a spectacular singing star?”

            “He wanted me to go into poetry,” Curt said, with a grin.  “Said I had a natural talent for rhythm.”

            “Well, lyrics are rather like poetry.”

            Curt shrugged.  “Mine aren’t much like it.  If I was…if I was writing lyrics like Brian’s…”

            “Then you wouldn’t be you,” Arthur said, putting a hand on his leg.  “You write the music that’s right for you, the music that speaks your soul.  It’s not right to compare it to someone else’s.  Everyone’s soul is unique.”

            “Deep.”  Curt laughed.  “Too deep for me.  Don’t you know I’m pure hedonism, through and through?”

            Arthur shook his head.  “That may be what everyone else sees, but I know better.”

            Curt looked away from Arthur’s face, taking a long swig from his water glass.  The dangling hair to either side of his face almost hid the slight blush that was painting his cheeks.

            As if summoned by the tender atmosphere, the waiter arrived to take their order before Arthur could think of a way to turn the moment into something that might, somehow, bring them at least one step closer to a real relationship.  And the waiter hadn’t been long gone before Arthur heard that irritating voice exclaiming “ _Here_ you are!  I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

            Arthur tried to look as stern as possible as Nate hastened over to their table.  “This is a private meal, Nate,” he said.

            Nate glowered at Curt—who was not helping matters by laughing openly—before giving Arthur a peevish stare.  “You’re the one who said you can’t let your love life interfere with your work.”

            “And I’m not.  This is my lunch break.  I’m not required to spend it with you.”

            “You are!  Because I’m the summer intern and it’s _your_ responsibility to make sure I learn the ropes!”

            “But not during my lunch break!” Arthur repeated, feeling his nerves already beginning to fray.  Why was this boy so damned obtuse?

            “I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Nate insisted, taking a seat at the table.

            “I’m not paying for your meal,” Curt told him.

            “I wasn’t asking you to,” Nate said, with a cold smile.  “I have far more money to throw around than _you_ do.”

            Curt just rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “I’m amazed you haven’t killed him yet,” he commented to Arthur.

            “Not everyone’s a barbarian like you,” Nate said, his voice positively dripping venom.

            Curt’s head turned so sharply in towards Nate that his hair had trouble keeping up with the motion, and jerked past his face before swinging back into its proper place.  “You know, Arthur, you really weren’t kidding,” he said, without looking away from Nate.  “This kid thinks he’s God’s gift to man, just because his face is girly.  Even though that won’t win him any boyfriends outside of a prison cell.”

            Arthur grimaced.  “Please, don’t start fighting,” he begged them both.  As flattering as the idea of two men fighting over him was—especially with one of them being Curt Wild himself!—the idea was also galling in the extreme, especially when the fight was about to break out in a place like this.  Not to mention that it was so excessively shallow that it was hardly convincing on either of their parts.

            Nate smiled at him charmingly.  “Of course not,” he said, turning up his smile to the point that it gave him cherub-like dimples.  Then he turned to look at Curt, his mouth still smiling, even as his eyes seemed to declare war.  “I suppose you’ve known each other a _very_ long time,” he commented.

            “I told you this morning—” Arthur started, but they weren’t listening to him.  Which seemed just a tiny bit ironic.

            “Since ’75,” Curt said, leaning back in his chair.  “Had you even been born yet, kid?”

            “Gosh, that long ago?”  Nate feigned a look of astonishment as he looked over at Arthur.  “You must have been _terribly_ young—even younger than me!”

            “I was nineteen—”

            “So you must have thought you were the first to rock his world,” Nate continued, looking back at Curt with all pretence at friendliness abandoned.  “Too bad you weren’t.”

            Curt laughed, and shook his head.  “I’d expect it was one of the Creatures that popped your cherry, right?” he asked, looking over at Arthur.

            “Such a classy way to phrase it,” Arthur said, with a resigned sigh.  “But yes, of course it was.”

            “I wonder if I have the guts to ask which one,” Curt said, looking up at the ceiling idly.

            “I don’t see why it should matter to you which of them was my first,” Arthur replied, feeling annoyed that his sexual history was being aired for anyone who felt like eavesdropping.  “I’d slept with all four of them by the time I’d been in London a week anyway.”

            Curt laughed hard.  “Too bad you were such a slow starter!” he exclaimed.

            “I’d spent years bein’ stifled by my parents’ home.  Of course I went a little mad once I was finally free of it.”  Arthur shook his head.  “I had no idea just how lucky I was to ‘ave met them.  Anyone else would ‘ave just taken advantage of me and then left me to fend for myself, but they took me in, gave me a place to live, food to eat, clothes to wear, and they never once asked me to do anything I wasn’t comfortable doin’.  Did a pretty good job of makin’ sure I didn’t go too far with the drugs or the drink, too.  I never properly thanked them for everything they did.  I really ought to thank them now.  Better late than never.”

            Curt smiled fondly.  “What’s happened to those guys, anyway?  Seems like years since I’ve heard about them.”

            Arthur shrugged.  “They’ve broken up and gotten back together three or four times since I came to America.  Each time they always send me letters sayin’ this time it’s permanent, this time they’ll never make up again, but each time they’re always reunited inside a few months.”

            “Well, when something’s right, it’s right,” Curt said.  “It feels right, no matter how many years pass.  You just slip back into it, like it was always meant to be.”  Their eyes met, and Arthur could feel himself blushing, even as Curt, too, darkened, and looked back down at his water glass.

            “Just who are these ‘Creatures’ anyway?” Nate asked, eying them both suspiciously.  “I thought you said it was that Ray guy.”

            “Yes, it was,” Arthur sighed.  Why did Nate think it was any of his bloody business?  “Ray was one of the four men I was livin’ with, and they were— _are_ —a band called the Flaming Creatures.  They’ve never really had international levels of success, but they were pretty well known in England back in the mid-‘70s.”

            “If their stage presence hadn’t been so fucking weird, they’d have been more successful,” Curt pointed out.  “They’re really good.”

            Something about hearing Curt himself praising the Creatures warmed Arthur with soft pride.  He’d never been allowed to join the band—because he had no musical talents whatsoever—but he had helped them out with all manner of backstage aspects of their live performances, from helping with costumes and makeup to lugging their things about.  Allegedly, it had been that work that had served to pay his rent with them, even though it had plainly been the sexual gratification he had continually provided them that had _really_ paid his rent.

            “If they were actually good, their stage presence shouldn’t have mattered,” Nate said, with a cold laugh.

            “Don’t make blanket statements you know nothing about,” Arthur replied.  It was intended merely to be a stern warning, but it came out as a bit of a snarl.  Nate looked quite taken aback.  “Do you even know anything about music at all?”

            “Well, I…I know what’s good and what isn’t,” Nate insisted, his eyes wandering in Curt’s direction as he spoke, as if to imply that Curt’s music wasn’t good.

            “People have to study music for years to be able to explain what makes a piece of music truly good,” Curt told him.  “It’s not something the untrained amateur can do.”

            “Well, I know what I like!”  Naturally, Nate was not giving up.  “And since everyone else agrees with me, that proves that what I like is good!”

            “Popular and good are not the same thing.”

            “Yes, they are!  Just look at—”  Thankfully, Nate’s retort was cut off by the return of the waiter with Curt and Arthur’s drinks.  And Nate seemed to have forgotten their argument over the course of placing his own order, so it was not resumed upon the waiter’s departure.  And Arthur decided to make certain that things didn’t get so ugly again by starting up a conversation about the morning’s events.  So far, none of the delegates had done anything surprising, of course, so there was little to discuss, but…

            The conversation was wearing a little thin—Nate seemed to be itching to try once more to start a fight with Curt—by the time someone else approached their table.  Arthur had thought it was the waiter, until the new arrival sat down in the last empty chair at the table, revealing himself to be Nicholas Ray.  Arthur had been watching his television programme for years now, but he was struck by just how much more handsome the man was in person than on the telly.  An impressive feat since most pundits—especially the conservative ones who didn’t agree with his comedic stylings—insisted he only had a television programme at all because of his good looks.

            “Hey, Nicky,” Curt said, with a chuckle.  “Didn’t know you were still here.”

            “I’m only Nicky when I don’t have my pants on,” the other man replied.  “The rest of the time, I’m Nick.  You know that.”  He laughed.  “Anyway, of course I’m still here.  We’re doing the show down here during the convention.  You’re the one who’s supposed to have gone back to New York by now.  But I can see why you stayed, with two such pretty boyfriends to keep you company!”

            Arthur was already blushing even before he felt Curt’s hand on his shoulder.  “Only the one boyfriend,” Curt corrected.  “That brat over there is nothing to do with me.”

            Nick glanced over at a horrified-looking Nate.  “Yeah?  Shit, I’ll take him, then!”  He reached out towards Nate, but his hand was slapped away almost immediately.

            “Don’t touch me, pervert!” Nate shouted, so loudly that Arthur could _hear_ everyone else in the restaurant turning to stare at them.

            A cold pit grew in Arthur’s stomach, even as Nick laughed it off.  If Nate was really homosexual, bisexual, or even _slightly_ interested in men at all, then he should have been thrilled by the attention.  Even if he didn’t want to have sex with Nick, he should still have been flattered and pleasantly flustered.  This outright aggression…

            “Anyway, Curt, I’ve been wanting to talk to you since last night,” Nick said, ignoring Nate seething at him, and unaware of Arthur’s growing unease, “but I was told you were busy.  Guess now I know who with, but I still wanted to talk to you.”

            “Yeah?  What about?”

            “When’s your next album coming out?”

            Curt shrugged.  “My manager got chased off again, so…could be a while before I can find one with the balls to stand up to a few scare tactics.  I’ve got most of an album’s worth of music ready to record, though, so it shouldn’t be too long after I can find representation.”

            “Those guys don’t play around, do they?”  Nick sighed, shaking his head.  “Well, you have to promise me you’ll come on the show to promote it once you do put out your next album.  Or maybe you should come on soon, regardless.  Might draw some management company to you.”

            “Not a bad idea,” Curt agreed.  “Especially since I’d get to keep all the money if I don’t have a manager.”

            Nick laughed.  “See?  You just shouldn’t even bother with a manager.”

            “I am _not_ arranging all my concerts and tours myself, or negotiating with any record companies.  There’s a lot of unpleasant shit in that process.”

            Curt and Nick continued to talk about the merits—and lack thereof—of professional representation, but Arthur couldn’t move past the fact that Curt’s manager was ‘chased off,’ that it had happened before, and that Nick was apparently fully aware of it, and maybe even of who was responsible for it.  Was it Tommy Stone’s protectors?  The Committee for Cultural Renewal?  Or maybe those two were one and the same…


	5. Chapter 5

            At the end of the day, the convention itself had provided no surprises, and Arthur’s report back to New York had been quite simple.  Everything else had his mind racing, however.  In order to keep from being pestered by Nate, they were having room service for dinner.  The privacy should have allowed Arthur to easily ask about everything that had been distracting him since their luncheon, but he was having trouble finding any way to put any of it into words.

            “Curt, I’ve been wonderin’ all day,” he finally managed to say, after they’d eaten half their meal in relative silence.

            “What?”

            “Did you—um—were you and Nicholas Ray, uh, seein’ each other at some point?”

            Curt laughed.  “Sort of.  It was right after my last album came out.  I’d gone on his show to promote it, and we started flirting after the filming was over, and next thing I knew we were fucking in the dressing room.  That much was fine, but then he claimed he actually wanted to date me.  I should’ve just refused, but it had been a while since anyone wanted to be serious, so…”  He sighed.  “It was a mistake.”

            “Why?  What happened?”

            “His idea of dating a man was for us to go girl hunting together, and only fuck each other if we couldn’t snag any women to fuck instead.”  Curt shook his head, pursing his lips in disgust.  “I’ve never liked group sex, but that’s his entire scene.”

            “Ah.  I’m sorry I asked.”

            “What, it’s that disappointing?”

            “No, I’m just sorry I made you think about it,” Arthur assured him, with a smile.  He’d have been much more disappointed if Curt had ever been serious about Nick.  Or, for that matter, about the group sex.  But that hadn’t been what he had really wanted to ask about…

            “So what’s wrong?”

            Was it showing on his face?  “It’s just…who’s been chasin’ away your managers?”

            Curt frowned.  “You can’t guess?”

            “I’ve been guessin’ all day, and I’ve come up with too many plausible candidates to be able to pick between them.”

            “Most of them are probably right,” Curt said, with a grim chuckle.  “They’re men of many hats.”

            Not the least bit reassuring as an answer. “Don’t you think you should do something about it?”

            Curt sighed.  “I don’t think you understand just what you’re asking.”

            “I understand that someone convinced—maybe threatened—my editor into droppin’ a story that would ‘ave been an enormous scoop for the _‘Erald_ , and that we suddenly got an intern for the first time in decades, only to ‘ave him attach himself to my hip like a leech and decide he wanted to be gay with me, even though he just made it clear he’s got no sexual interest in men.  Anything more I need to understand?”

            “That’s only the tip of the iceberg.  These guys can send people to prison, or worse.  But if we can get Reynolds out of office, maybe…”  He shook his head.  “Just forget about it.”

            “But—”

            “I said, drop it!”  The shout was accompanied by a sharp rattling of flatware as Curt threw his fork down onto the table.

            “All right.”

            They ate the rest of their meal in silence as a battle waged itself within Arthur.  His journalistic instincts were screaming that this was the outskirts of the story of a lifetime, and that he had to explore it fully so he could share it with the world.  The timidity his parents and brother had worked so hard to force upon him was rearing its ugly head for the first time in years, demanding that he do nothing to rock the boat, even as his own sense of rebellion against that timidity was demanding that he absolutely _had_ to shake things up, if only as a way of sticking it to everyone who had ever tried to hold him down.  And his heart was begging him not to make waves and risk losing any chance of ever having a real relationship with the man he adored.

            But if he could only succeed with Curt by suppressing his natural curiosity, would that even count as being a real relationship?  An affair based on a falsehood—no matter what type or how large—was never a really proper relationship.

 

***

 

            Curt should have woken up in a great mood.  For the second night in a row, he’d been soothed to sleep by fantastic sex, both nights with the same person, even.  It had been years since he’d been able to say that.  Sure, it was nothing special, just sex, but hollow sex was safer for everyone involved; the only thing empty sex risked was a few venereal diseases, and even AIDS was better than some of the negative side effects of a genuine love affair gone wrong.

            So, of course he was feeling a bit distressed this morning.  No, not distressed.  Disconcerted.  Worried.  Uneasy.  Whatever the right word for it, Curt was feeling it in spades.

            Maybe it didn’t mean anything.  Maybe Arthur had thought Curt was already asleep when he said it.  Maybe he’d meant it in a some metaphorical sense.  But whatever he had meant, as he was cuddling up last night, right before dropping off into a deep and peaceful sleep, Arthur had said “I love you.”

            There was a time that wouldn’t have worried him.  If Arthur had said that back on that rooftop in 1975, Curt wouldn’t have been upset.  Maybe that would have been the push he needed to agree to the boy’s pleas to go with him.  As much as people now liked to think otherwise, it wasn’t the break-up with Brian that had made Curt live in fear of love.  It was seeing what Brian had done with himself in the years since the break-up.

            It was seeing Tommy Stone that made Curt swear off feeling anything for another person ever again.  If they were going to turn around and become someone like that…it was better to keep them all at a distance.

            Admittedly, Arthur would probably never go that route.  He seemed as appalled as Curt was by what Brian had become.  But he’d become so tame, so mundane, so fucking _commonplace_ over the past nine years.  Another few years, and he might be a conservative sycophant, too.

            Worry over what was about to go horribly, horribly wrong was probably why Curt decided to sleep in when Arthur got up and left to cover the second day of the convention.  Getting up to have breakfast with him was only going to encourage him to think there was something special between them, and that would only make things worse.  So Curt had breakfast much later—but still pretty early by his standards, barely after nine—and after he left the room service dishes out in the hall, he went back into the room and flipped through the channels on the TV.  Of course, everything on was shit.

            It was way too hot outside to leave the hotel, and he hadn’t brought anything to read, because he’d thought he was only staying one night.  So the only thing to do was go back to sleep or fuck around with his guitar.

            That’s why Curt was idly strumming out an old tune when the phone rang.  “Yeah?” he said into it, expecting it was the front desk saying that someone was complaining about the noise.

            “So you really are still down there,” Mandy’s voice said.  What the fuck was _she_ doing calling him?  “I’ve been trying your apartment for an hour.”

            “I had my reasons for staying a few extra days.”  Curt was about to ask her _why_ she had been trying to call him when Mandy started laughing.  “Just what’s so fucking funny?”

            “I think you mean you had _a_ reason for staying,” she said.

            “I don’t know what you think you know, but—”

            “Oh, I know all about your reason.  About six feet tall, dark hair, pretty face, nice smile, piercing eyes, from northern England—”

            “How the _fuck_ did you know all that?!”

            Mandy let out a quiet sigh.  “So you don’t even know yet,” she said.

            “Know what?”

            “Go find a newsstand.  You’ll see.”

            “But—”

            “Better to see than to hear,” Mandy said.  “Go on, go.”  And she didn’t let him keep arguing—as usual—hanging up the phone instead.

            Alarmed, Curt put on a shirt—a dirty one, of course, since he hadn’t brought enough clothes for such a long stay—and headed for the door out of his suite.  The breakfast dishes had been taken away already, and in their place had been left a large manila envelope.  Curt took the envelope back into the room and looked inside.  A note and a newspaper.

            Pulling out the note first, he found it was from Nick, and only said “Did you sign off on this?”  Yeah, that was encouraging…

            The newspaper, it turned out, was actually a tabloid, and it was obviously what Mandy had been talking about.  The entire front cover was plastered with a huge photo of that kiss Curt and Arthur had shared in the restaurant at lunch.

            “Son of a bitch!”

            Curt threw the damned thing as hard as he could at the wall.  This was all Arthur’s fault!  If he hadn’t—if he hadn’t—if he hadn’t worn those glasses…that he seemed ashamed of…and accidentally turned Curt on…then this couldn’t have happened?

            That didn’t really…

            But that didn’t mean Arthur was innocent of all this, either.  Showing up so conveniently, and then just _happening_ to have brought along an intern who was—allegedly—sexually harassing him, forcing Curt’s hand into letting him stay in Curt’s room…none of it was actually very believable as a coincidence, was it?  All the less convincing considering the boy’s reaction to Nick’s advances made it clear he didn’t like men.

            Curt picked up the tabloid, and had a look at the article that accompanied the photo.  Compared all to the ink they used on the photo, the article was ridiculously puny.  It said fuck-all about Arthur, just that he was a reporter, and that they were joined at lunch by another pretty young reporter, and by Nicholas Ray, who was almost as notorious for being sexually voracious as Curt was.  It spent a lot longer talking about Curt’s sexual history, especially with Brian—complete with the obligatory and ubiquitous photos of him and Brian kissing, and naturally the stupid guitar-tonguing stunt—than it did about anything currently happening.

            If Arthur had anything planned by all this, that article probably hadn’t been part of his plan.  Unless the idea was to force Curt’s hand into helping him write a killer exposé about Tommy Stone in order to quiet the media frenzy about their own relationship.

            Was he really capable of being that callous and calculating?  He didn’t seem the type.

            Then again, looking at him now, he wouldn’t seem the type to have ever been a glam groupie fucking a whole rock band, either.  But the Flaming Creatures wouldn’t have gotten so tight with him if he was a piece of shit, so maybe he wasn’t behind this.

            Unless he hadn’t actually been involved with them.  Curt only had his word for that.  He never saw him with them.  Maybe he had lied to sound cool?  Or at least less pathetic?  That kind of thing wasn’t uncommon…

            No point in asking Arthur about it.  Even if it had been a lie, he’d never admit it.  But maybe Curt could get in touch with one of the Creatures and ask _them_ …

            He picked up the phone and asked the hotel desk to put him through to the operator.  Once he was on with the operator, he asked “Is there any way you can look up London phone numbers?”

            “London of what state?”

            “England.”

            “Oh, _that_ London!  I’m sorry, sir.  I only have American phone numbers in my computer system.”

            Curt sighed.  “Yeah, I thought so.  Do you think you can connect me to your English equivalent?”

            “Um…hold on while I ask my supervisor, please.”

            It took about fifteen minutes, but Curt was eventually able to get through to English directory assistance, and they were able to give him the numbers of three of the four members of the Flaming Creatures.  Probably could have given him all four if Curt had any idea what Pearl’s actual name was.  He tried Malcolm’s number first.  As the band’s front man, he’d been the one Curt had been more willing to speak to back in the day.

            The “Hello?” that came through the line could have been anyone.

            “Is that Malcolm?” Curt asked.

            “Yes.  Who is that?”  Malcolm’s voice was decidedly suspicious.

            “Curt Wild.”

            A momentary silence.  “Well, that’s unexpected.  What did you want from me?”

            Curt grimaced.  He hadn’t planned this through very well.  “It’s sort of hard to explain,” he admitted.  “I wanted to ask you about someone you used to know—someone who says he used to know you, anyway.”

            “Oh?  Who?”

            “His name’s Arthur Stuart.”

            Malcolm laughed quietly.  “Oh, so the poor darling finally found you again!”

            That answered one question, then.  “He’s on the level, then.”

            “Didn’t he tell you he was with us when you had that shag on the roof?”

            “Yeah, but he could have been lying.”

            Malcolm sighed.  “I think he’d have chosen someone a little more impressive than us if he was going to lie.”

            That had certainly been Curt’s take on it at the time, but it didn’t seem right to say so.

            “Surely you didn’t call halfway across the world just to make sure Arthur was telling the truth about who his exes were,” Malcolm said, after Curt had been silent for a while.

            “Yeah—I mean, no, I didn’t.”  Curt scowled.  This was definitely not how he had planned for this conversation to go down.  “It’s…well, for starters, are you still in touch with him?  Do you know in what ways he’s changed, and in what ways he hasn’t?”

            “Yes, we still keep in touch.  America’s such a beastly place these days.  Someone has to keep an eye on him.  Can’t have him turning out like…”  Malcolm’s voice dropped off sharply.  So he’d recognized Brian, too.  Or Arthur had told him.

            “That’s…that was one of my worries, too,” Curt admitted.  Then, partially against his own better instincts, he explained the situation with the intern and the tabloid and all that shit.

            “Poor Arthur,” Malcolm said, when the explanation was over.  “He’s terribly prone to embarrassment these days.  I think it comes from being around so many awful Americans.  Unlike yourself, of course.”

            Curt chuckled.  “Oh, I don’t claim not to be awful.  I’m just a different _type_ of awful from those motherfuckers.”

            Malcolm laughed.  “Your type of awful, he can handle.”  A slight pause.  “I’m sure he’s _been_ handling it quite extensively, in fact.”

            “Skillfully,” Curt agreed.

            “We taught him well.”

            And that bridged the gap into fucking creepy.  Curt cleared his throat to preface his attempt to change the subject, even if only slightly.  “So, you don’t think there’s any way he might have been in on it?”

            “On the tabloid story?  I can’t imagine it.  He’s quite paranoid about his co-workers finding out he fancies men.”  Malcolm sighed.  “That ghastly family of his, you know.  It’s hard to counteract that for long.”

            “Yeah, I know how that is better than most.”  The fact that Arthur also had trauma in his past did not do much to convince Curt that he couldn’t be up to something, however.

            “Do you doubt him so much?” Malcolm asked after a lengthy silence.

            “Of course.  Where I am right now, I have to doubt everyone.”  Especially since he never knew when those assholes might decide it would be better to silence him permanently than risk that he might spill Tommy’s secret past.

            “Not Arthur.  You don’t have to doubt _him_.  He’s completely devoted to you.”  A mirthless chuckle.  “Basically followed you home, you know.”

            Shit, was _that_ why he moved to New York?  He’d avoided the question the other day…  “That doesn’t necessarily mean…”

            “It does.  And I don’t want you ever saying anything to let him know about this.”

            “Excuse me?”  Was that a _threat_?

            “He’s not the naïf he was ten years ago, but Arthur is still more fragile than he ought to be, and entirely too honest for his own good.  For the most part, being around you isn’t the risk to him that it would have been ten years ago, but he likely won’t recover if he learns you suspect him of plotting against you.”

            “What the—what’s that supposed to mean?” Curt demanded.  “Just how was being around me a ‘risk’ to him?!”

            “Can you imagine what would have happened if Arthur had made a different turning after arriving in London and ran into you and Brian instead of us?  Late November of ’73, and there he was, still only seventeen, newly escaped from his suburban prison, completely innocent of the ways of the world, so trusting that he walked right into a nightclub still carrying his suitcase and told four horny men that he was looking for a place to stay the night.  Just what do you think the two of _you_ would have done if he’d come into a venue where _you_ were performing, instead of us?  Can you picture that?”

            Vividly.  “I still don’t see how that would have been a _risk_ ,” Curt insisted, trying to keep from going any deeper into imagining what he might have done at having both Brian _and_ a seventeen year old Arthur in his bed at the same time…

            “How long do you suppose he would have lasted before dying of an overdose?”

            “That was harsh.”  Probably true, but still harsh.

            “Sometimes a cruel word is necessary to prevent a tragic outcome.”

            “Uh…sorry, I think I have the wrong number.”

            Malcolm laughed.  “Yes, I know it sounds odd coming from me.”

            “Aren’t you the one who gave him mescaline?”

            “Only in moderation.”

            Curt tried to point out how hypocritical that was, and ended up being subjected to several more minutes of lectures.  Apparently, approaching middle age was turning Malcolm respectable.  How depressing!  Was Curt really the only one who was still the same person he was ten years ago?

            Except even he wasn’t _really_ the same, either.  Ten years ago, he had still been an addict, and his career was nearing its crescendo.  Now he was clean, but his career wasn’t doing so hot.  It wasn’t as bad as some people made it out to be, but he was far from being on top of the industry.

            Eventually, Malcolm ran out of lecture points, and Curt was able to hang up the phone—though he was pretty sure he’d been on it for at least half an hour, which was going to make for a really ugly bill when he checked out of the hotel—which left him at loose ends.  What was he supposed to do about this tabloid thing?  If he had a manager—or a current record deal—he’d be able to let it be, safe in the knowledge that someone else would deal with it.

            Well, it was only fair to talk to Arthur about it.  If he wasn’t involved, then he needed to know, and if he _was_ involved, then confronting him about it would surely make him expose himself.  Curt rolled up the tabloid—picture side in—and jammed it in the back pocket of his jeans before leaving the hotel room and taking the elevator down to the ground floor so he could access the convention center.

            He didn’t reach the convention center before running into Nick, who pulled him into a doorway so they could talk in relative privacy.  “So, did you _let_ them take that picture?” he asked.

            Curt shook his head.  “No, I had no idea.”

            “And your boyfriend?”

            Curt shrugged.  “I was going to go talk to him about it now.”

            Nick frowned.  “That story puts me in a bit of a bind.”

            “Why would it?  It’s nothing to do with you.”

            “It mentions me, and specifically points out that I joined you for lunch.”  He sighed.  “Now the network is demanding that I need to interview you about it.  I tried to stall them by saying I’d have to try and go through your manager, but one of them looked up the fact that you don’t have one right now, so…”

            “I don’t think I want to give any interviews about my love life,” Curt said, trying not to grimace.

            “Believe me, I don’t want to take one, either.  Like I said, I’m in a bind.  As far as the network is concerned, I’ve been incriminated, and can only vindicate myself by getting a major scoop.”

            “A scoop?” Curt repeated.  “Since when are you a newsman?”

            “Since Reynolds started putting the screws to the real news media.  It started out just as political comedy, but then the Committee for Cultural Renewal managed to force CBS to fire one of its most important anchormen.  _Someone_ has to stand up to them.”

            Curt sighed.  “Yeah.”

            “So, what do you say?  Exclusive interview with the two of you tonight?”

            “I dunno, man.  That’s a big decision to make so fast.  And I can’t talk for Arthur.”

            “Will you at least ask him about it?” Nick asked, his eyes pleading.  Reminded Curt of the look Nick would give a pretty girl who was willing to dance with him, but not to suck him off.

            “I’ll mention it.”

            “Let me know as soon as you’ve both made a decision, all right?  Or you know what, I’ll be filming tonight in the auditorium about 7:00.  If you’re willing to be on the show, just come by and let my staff know.  They’ll fit you into the schedule.”

            Curt nodded, and they parted ways.  Nick headed off wherever the fuck he had been going in the first place, and Curt made his way into the thick of things, looking for Arthur.

            It seemed like the crowd was parting to let him through as Curt walked among the delegates, reporters and god-only-knew-who-else.  That didn’t feel like a good sign.  Especially given the murmuring and snickers he thought he heard in passing.  Just how many people could have seen one stupid tabloid?  Unless someone with a grudge was passing it out…

            The sole advantage of seemingly everyone having seen that photo was that they all knew where Curt was going better than he did.  He had expected to have to spend ages searching for Arthur in that sea of humanity, but they opened a path right up to him, saving Curt a lot of time and frustration.

            Arthur looked surprised to see Curt.  “What’s wrong?” he asked.  “You look upset.”

            Curt sighed.  “So you don’t know yet.”

            “Know what?”  Rather than answer, Curt took the tabloid out of his pocket and handed it over.  Arthur unrolled it, and his eyes went saucer-sized.  “What the—when did they—who—?”

            Curt shrugged.  “I didn’t see anyone with a camera, but I guess I wasn’t really paying much attention.”  He’d been pretty well trained to ignore cameras anyway.  Unless there were enough of them to blind him with their flashbulbs.

            “I suppose this is why I’ve felt like people are starin’ at me all morning…” Arthur said, his voice glum, and his eyes still glued to the photograph.

            “What’s going on?” Nate asked from behind Arthur.  “Let me see!”

            Without waiting for Arthur even to acknowledge that he had spoken, the boy snatched the tabloid out of his hands, and stared at it for several seconds with apparent horror on his face, then dropped it and ran off through the crowd.  “Bloody hell,” Arthur grumbled.  “That’s the last thing I need.”

            “Can’t you do your job better without him slowing you down?”

            “Yeah, but if the rumors are true, his father’s filthy rich.  Could and would shut us down at the slightest provocation.  And if something happens to the boy, that’d be plenty of provocation.”  Arthur shook his head.  “I’d better go after him.  I’ll meet you in your room for lunch, all right?”

            “What if the rumors _aren’t_ true?” Curt asked.

            “Then there might be even more dangerous side effects to leavin’ him be.  I really need to go after him.”

            Curt nodded, and Arthur ran out after Nate.

            This was promising to be the worst day Curt had had in years…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A particularly vivid picture of what Curt might have done if he'd met Arthur while he and Brian were still together is in "Of Angels and Demons," https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880112 (Looks like there are a few others, as well, but I haven't read them, so I can't say what they're like. This one I *have* read, and I love it.)


	6. Chapter 6

            There was no sign of Nate as Arthur approached the door to the room they had shared on the first night.  Figuring he had to be inside, Arthur was about to knock when he heard Nate’s voice on the other side of the door.

            “I do understand that, ma’am!” he was shouting.  Who was he talking to?  Was there someone in there with him?  “I promise you, I had nothing to do with it,” Nate said, after a long enough silence that Arthur concluded he must have been on the phone.  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.  Why would your employer be upset?”  Another long silence, in which Arthur realised his heart was pounding madly, terrified that someone might come along and see him listening in on the conversation inside.  “I can’t understand his reasons if you won’t explain them to me, Miss Hazelbourne.”

            That explained _everything_.  All too neatly.  If Nate was working for Shannon…

            …then Arthur absolutely could _not_ afford to get caught eavesdropping on his conversation!  He hurried back to the convention centre as fast as he could.

            Despite that Arthur was rather expecting him to, Nate didn’t return to the convention floor for the rest of the morning, and soon enough Arthur was headed up to Curt’s room to eat, and to share what he had learned.  Curt, of course, didn’t like the news any.

            “I suppose I should have seen that coming,” he sighed.  “It’s just like Brian to want to keep tabs on who I’m fucking.  But I don’t get why he’d have sent someone to seduce you _before_ he knew about us.”

            Arthur smiled uncomfortably.  “That’s my fault, I’m afraid.”  He explained about the question he had asked Tommy at the stage door back in February.  “I’d thought nothing was likely to happen, since it hadn’t yet, but…guess I was wrong.”

            Curt grimaced.  “Well, that was a fucking stupid thing to do.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “If their plan was just to out you as gay, they’d have succeeded, but it wouldn’t have taken something that tricky just to do that.  Suppose the real plan was based around the kid’s age?”

            “Or the impropriety of a journalist seducin’ an intern under his tutelage,” Arthur replied.  “Or more likely both.”

            Curt shrugged.  “Well, at least we can deflate _that_ scheme for good.”

            “Beyond what’s already happened?”

            “Yeah.  Nick wants to interview us on his show tonight.  So we can tell him about—”

            “Curt, there is no way I’m goin’ on television.  Not for any reason.  I’d just humiliate myself.  I’m rubbish at speakin’ in public.”

            “You’re literally being framed, and you’re not willing to go public about it?”

            “I’d only make a fool of myself.”  Arthur smiled weakly.  “Besides, who’d look at a shamble like me and seriously believe anyone was willin’ to shag me?  They’d never buy it.”

            Curt lifted an eyebrow.  “Okay, that’s not something I would have ever expected you to say."  He shook his head, looking sceptical.  "If you don’t like looking shabby, start wearing nice clothes again.”

            “It wouldn’t help.”

            “The clothes are the only part that doesn’t look perfect.  Well, the clothes and that haircut.”

            Arthur shook his head.  “You’re biased.”

            “Apparently, so are you.”  He shrugged.  “But if you won’t go on the show, fine.  I can do it myself.  Maybe it’ll work better that way; Nick knows me, he can follow my lead without the audience realising I’ve done anything.”

            Arthur looked at him, trying not to be quite as worried as he was.  “What are you plannin’ on doin’?”

            Curt shrugged again.  “I’ll think of something.”

 

***

 

            Rather than the usual setting for _The Moonlight Show_ , an _ad hoc_ set had been thrown together, consisting of mismatched tables and chairs.  The show’s audience was seated in the area where the delegates had been gathered during the day, and they were cheering ecstatically for almost everything that Nick said.  Curt had a pretty good view of the show from the wings, but watching it was an odd and disjointed experience, because all the sequences of footage from the convention weren’t quite ready yet, and the audience was just presented with a screen telling them roughly what they were going to see when the show aired in a few hours.

            But finally the time came.  “We have an unexpected special guest tonight,” Nick told the cameras.  “Just got this all arranged this afternoon, so we haven’t had time to prepare a script.  Not that my guest ever obeys a script anyway,” he added with a laugh.  “Now, everyone, I want you to put your hands together for our very special, unplanned guest, Curt Wild!”

            Despite everything, the audience cheered like crazy as Curt headed out onto the makeshift stage.  When he reached his mark, he shook hands with Nick and sat down, as usual, but the standard banter didn’t emerge.

            “So, you’ve had a rough day,” Nick said, taking his own seat.

            “Yeah.”

            “Do we have a shot of that?” Nick asked, turning to his tech guys.

            “Hey, don’t—” Curt started, but he couldn’t get further than that before it was too late, and a blown-up image of the tabloid’s cover filled the screen on the back wall.

            “Any thoughts?” Nick asked.

            “I think I’m gonna punch you if you don’t take that down.”

            Nick cleared his throat, and gestured to the tech people.  The image went away again.  “I guess you’ve been suffering a lot since that tabloid appeared.”

            “Not much, actually.  But Ar—uh—my friend there, he’s not used to this sort of attention.  He’s pretty mortified by it.”

            “Your ‘friend,’ huh?” Nick chuckled.  “Not gonna call him your boyfriend?”

            “Don’t really like that term.  We’re not high school kids.”

            “So, I know one of the big questions everyone’s asking right now is just what this means about you, as a person.  I know back in the ‘70s, everyone was saying they were bisexual, but is that still how you see yourself, or—”

            “I don’t like labels.  If I wanna fuck someone, I fuck them.  I don’t care if they’re a guy or a girl.  It’s not about that for me.”

            Nick nodded.  Well, of course he did.  If anyone was going to understand, it was Nick.  “It seems like lately, you’ve only been seen with women.  Is this a back-sliding thing, or—”

            “Don’t fuck with me, man.  You know damned well it’s nothing like that.  The only reason it’s always seemed to be girls lately is that men have learned to keep it quieter since AIDS started mowing down gay men left and right.  My love life’s always been about two-thirds men, and that hasn’t changed.  It just doesn’t look that way to people who don’t know me.”

            “But your new fella isn’t afraid to be seen with you?” Nick asked, with a bit of a laugh.

            “He’s just as afraid as everyone else.  I just got too eager and did something stupid.”  There was, sadly, no other way to look at it.

            “So, is he the reason you’re still in Florida?  I thought you were going back to New York after your concert.”

            “I was supposed to go, yeah.  But…c’mon, you’ve seen what he looks like.  How could I go when I had someone like that eager to have sex with me?”

            Nick laughed.  “Really?  Nothing deeper than wanting to get laid?  Won’t he be back in New York in a few days?  From the way he was talking, I thought he lived there.”

            “Yeah, he does, and he will.  Er, he will and he does.  But…”  Curt sighed.  It had seemed like a good idea at lunch, but now he was starting to have second thoughts about this.  Would straight people understand?  It would presumably put a stop to Nate’s schemes, but would it turn the country against him and his employers?

            “Curt?  But what?”

            Curt sighed.  There was no point in having come on the show in the first place if he didn’t do it.  “He’s been under a lot of stress all summer, but it’s been worse since getting here.  You remember that kid who was sitting with us, yeah?”

            “Of course!  I half thought he was a girl, he was so pretty.”

            “He’s interning at my friend’s paper.  And—”

            “Okay, can you call him something else?” Nick asked.  “That’s going to really grate.  I get that you want to protect his privacy—that’s really sweet—but ‘friend’ doesn’t cut it.  If you’re screwing him, he’s a lot more than a friend.”

            Or a lot less than one.  “You got a suggestion?”

            “Well, you could give him a nickname.  Say…’Brian Mark 2’.”

            “Fuck you.”

            Nick laughed.  “What was the name of the guy Oscar Wilde went to jail for?”

            “No way in hell am I using _that_.”

            Nick glanced over at someone in the wings.  Curt followed his gaze, and saw one of the production assistants making a motion to speed it up.  “We could keep at this all night,” Nick told the audience, “but my staff don’t seem to think it’s very entertaining—” a few boos from the audience for the poor schleps just doing their jobs “—so we’d better cut this banter short and get back to the point.  Either use his name or call him your boyfriend.”

            Curt grimaced.  Arthur was going to kill him if he used his name.  “All right, all right, fine.  But you owe me one.”

            Nick laughed…even though there really wasn’t anything funny about it.

            “So where was I?”  That stupid interruption had made him completely lose track of where he’d gotten in the story.

            “The pretty boy is interning at your boyfriend’s paper,” Nick reminded him.

            “Yeah.  So that kid, Nate, he’s supposedly just this rich boy, a college student.  From the day he arrives at the paper, he starts following my boyfriend around, as if he’s up and decided that they’re best buddies.”

            “Now, were you guys seeing each other at this point?”

            “No, that’s only since the convention started.”  Curt grinned.  “We’d had a fantastic night of sex nine years ago, and run into each other a few times in New York, but nothing had quite managed to happen after that one-night stand.”

            “Back in the mid-‘70s?  I bet he was even hotter then than he is now.”

            “He was,” Curt assured him.  Although, really, the only significant difference was the clothes and the hair.  And the physique under the clothes was slightly more manly now, a bit more definition in the muscles of the chest.  “Anyway, he had the sense not to let Nate get too close.  Then suddenly his editor announced they were sending him and Nate to cover the convention, even though they normally wouldn’t do that sort of thing, being a tiny, broke-ass paper.”  Curt sighed.  “This is where it starts to be my fault, ‘cause his editor either knew how he feels about me, or at least knew he was a fan of my music, and that’s how he talked him into coming, by saying that I’d be performing on the first night.”

            “So is that good or bad?”

            “If it weren’t for Nate, it’d be perfect.  But that kid’s got some kind of hold over someone—probably the editor—and he managed to swing it so the two of them were sharing a single room, with a single bed.”

            Nick’s brow furrowed.  “But he called me a pervert just for making a pass at him as a joke,” he objected.

            No fucking way that was a joke.  “Yeah, that was our first clue that Nate was up to something a lot worse than just trying to seduce my boyfriend.”  Curt grimaced.  “I keep forgetting to ask him what made him go into reporting, but he’s really good at it.  Knows how to dig down to the truth of a story.  And he’s already gotten to the truth behind Nate.  Turns out he’s a plant, trying to wreck my boyfriend’s career.  The idea was for them to have sex, and then for everyone to find out about it, making the innocent party look like the villain, since he’s older and in a position of some authority over Nate.”

            “Shit.  Why would they want to do that?”

            Curt smiled, but he didn’t mean it.  “Like I said, he’s good at digging down to the truth.  He uncovered a secret a lot of us have been bullied into keeping for years, but then he was dumb enough to drop a big hint in front of the man whose secret it was.  So now he and his attack bitch are trying to discredit him so no one will believe him if he tries to put it in print.”

            Nick looked at Curt with concern.  “A lot of us?” he repeated.  “You’re one of the people with the secret?”

            Curt nodded.

            “But why haven’t you ever told this secret, whatever it is?” Nick asked.

            “Some of his friends have very long arms.”

            “Huh?  Whose friends?”

            The moment of truth.  “Tommy Stone’s.”

            “Wha—?  What’s Tommy Stone got to do with any of this?”  The disbelief was written plainly on Nick’s face.  He knew how much hate Curt had for the very idea of Tommy Stone, and that Curt always refused to say why.

            “He’s the one my boyfriend’s got dirt on.  See, he figured out what Tommy’s name was before he changed it.”

            “And how did you know what it was?”

            A sad smile.  “I recognized him.  A lot of us did.  People who knew him before he became the traitor he is now.  And his buddies in the Committee for Mind Control didn’t want us to talk, but they’re still just bound enough by the law that they didn’t wanna up and off us, either.”  Hopefully, Brian—however little of him was left within Tommy—would never want Curt killed, but he was quite sure the Committee for Cultural Renewal would have had no qualms about it if they thought they could get away with it.

            “Are you…are you serious?”  From the tone of his voice and the look on his face, Nick was desperately praying that Curt would say it was all a big joke.

            Curt nodded.  “Very serious.”

            “Well?” Nick asked after a moment or two of silence.  “Who is he really?  What was his name before he changed it?”

            “If I tell you that, they’ll probably kill me, laws or no.”

            “But…”

            “You wanna know, try asking that crazy manager of his, Shannon.  She’s the one most determined to protect him.”  Hopefully that would be a hint big enough to let a few people guess the truth.  Or maybe it wouldn’t?  How well known was Shannon from the old days?  Arthur must have recognized her, but he’d been an ardent fan back in the day…

            “Why’s that?”

            “Why’s she so desperate to protect him?”  Curt laughed.  “She’s in love with him.  Always has been.  I don’t even want to know if they’re fucking or not.”

            Nick shuddered.  “The idea of anyone fucking Tommy Stone is horrifying.”

            “Yeah.”  Try living with the knowledge that Curt had to live with, that he _had_ fucked him, countless times…

            A silence fell on the stage then, only broken by the murmuring of the audience.  Nick looked over at them as if he had forgotten they were there, then he looked back at Curt, trying to smile.  “So, are you going to use this as free publicity to get a new record released?”

            Curt laughed.  “Maybe I should.”  Assuming he could get a new manager first.

            “The world really needs a new Curt Wild album,” Nick assured him.

            “It may need it, but I’m not so sure it wants it.”

            A surprising outpouring of noise came from the audience.  Most of it was too garbled by the general clamor, but Curt could clearly hear several people screaming that they did want it.  It was hard to keep his face under control, to keep them from knowing just how touched he was by their continued attachment to his fading career.

            “There you have it,” Nick laughed.  “The people have spoken, and they have said ‘give us more music!’  So now you have no choice.”

            Curt chuckled.  “Well, if it’s the mandate of the people, I guess I’d better do it.”

            The crowd cheered loudly.


	7. Chapter 7

            It had been little more than luck that had made Mandy watch _The Moonlight Show_ that night.  She had never been particularly taken with the show or its host’s comedy stylings even before meeting him, and after seeing him dragging Curt around to some particularly sleazy night spots, she started to feel unclean just looking at the man.  But shortly before it started, she was flipping through the channels nervously, and came across a commercial pointing out that Nicholas Ray was broadcasting from the Democratic National Convention in Florida, so since there hadn’t been anything on the national news, she went ahead and watched the show.

            She certainly hadn’t expected that Curt would be on the program himself, but once it was announced that he was, Mandy obviously knew they’d be talking about Arthur.  Of course they would.  But she could never have imagined that Curt would use the show as a twisted half-reveal of Brian’s secret.

            How long would it take people to figure out that the only person Curt knew well enough to recognize no matter what he did to himself was Brian?  All they’d have to do would be to research Shannon’s past, or call Arthur’s paper and find out what stories he’d been investigating in the past that might connect to Curt.  Though maybe they’d have trouble calling Arthur’s paper without knowing his name.  Still, the other reporters at the convention probably knew who he was; he was rather hard to forget…

            …though it took Mandy most of a sleepless night before she realized that she had seen him once _before_ he came looking for Brian several months ago.  He’d been that kid backstage watching her and Curt.  That must have been when Curt fucked him the first time.  Even though he was probably underage at the time.  _Had_ to have been underage by British law, even if he’d have been legal in America.

            Of course, none of that was really any of her business.  Sure, she felt a certain amount of obligation to look after Curt, since he had often been in a state where he couldn’t look after himself, and it had been her ex-husband who fucked him up so badly, after all.  Besides, who else could commiserate with her on just how awful it was to love Brian and then lose him?  But she couldn’t protect Curt from his own lusts, and besides—as she had said to him during that interview—Arthur seemed like a nice guy; he probably wasn’t going to do anything to hurt Curt further.  What _everyone else_ was likely to do was another question, but…well, it wasn’t like there was anything Mandy could do about any of that, either.

            Her real worry was what Shannon and Brian were doing.  Shannon was probably thrilled to see Curt off the market in any way, shape or form, but Brian…

            Trying to predict how Brian was going to react to _anything_ tended to be futile.

            There was really only one thing to do.  As soon as it seemed a decent hour to be calling anyone, Mandy picked up the phone and dialed the number for Shannon’s office in Brian’s apartment.  She’d hired a private detective to find the number for her years ago, but she’d never quite had the nerve to call it before now.  Shannon sounded a bit worn when she answered the phone.  Mandy wasn’t sure if that was a good sign, or a bad one.

            “It’s Mandy,” she said into the phone.  “Let me talk to Brian.”

            “Why?” Shannon replied, her voice running icy cold.

            “Because I want to talk to him.  We were married for almost five years.  I think I have a right to talk to him once in a while.”  Even if he had changed his name, his face, and everything else about himself.

            Shannon let out a deep sigh that almost sounded like a strangled sob.  “He’s very upset right now.  I don’t want anything to be said that will make it worse.”

            Despite herself, Mandy was actually pleased to hear that.  “I promise I won’t upset him.  I just want to talk.”

            The line stayed quiet for some time.  “All right.  Hold on.”

            It was almost five minutes before Mandy heard anything else through the phone.  “Mandy?”  Brian’s voice.  Soft, shaken, but with an underlying current of anger.  Not a common combination, but she _had_ heard it before.  “Did you know Curt was going to do that…?”

            “All I knew was that he was going to perform at the convention.”  Of course that was all she had known.  That was the only part that had been planned.

            “Why would he turn on me like that?  Accusing me of such awful things.”

            “Brian, Curt and I have spent the last three years under constant government surveillance!  He has every right to be annoyed.”

            “What…?  No, no, they wouldn’t do that.  Surely they wouldn’t do that.  Not to you, not to Curt…”

            “They did.”  No point in trying to shelter him from something so concrete.

            A silence.  Too long to be called a pause.  “I had no idea,” Brian said, barely more than a whisper.

            Mandy sighed.  “I’ve thought so many times of trying to talk to you about it, to see if you could make them stop.  But I…”  She couldn’t finish the sentence.  She had thought he knew and didn’t care.  She had thought there was nothing he could do.  She had thought there was nothing he _would_ do.

            “Is that why Curt is trying to expose me?”

            “Probably.  But trying to guess what’s going on in Curt’s mind is pointless.  He doesn’t think like normal people.”  Between the electric shocks to a still-developing brain and more than a decade of drug abuse, that was only to be expected.

            “It’s that reporter’s fault,” Tommy announced.  “He’s coerced Curt into turning on me.”

            “Brian, as far as Curt or I ever knew, you might have been fully aware of what the Committee was doing to us—aware and unwilling to stop it!  Curt has every right to want to put a stop to it himself.”

            “But why would he—he wouldn’t get involved with that cowardly snake-in-the-grass of his own volition.  The man had to have done something to him!”

            Mandy laughed.  “You haven’t seen him.  He’s really quite pretty.  Exactly Curt’s type.”  Honestly, if he’d been about five, six years older, Mandy might have gone for him herself.  Her romantic calendar wasn’t exactly crowded, after all.

            “I’ve seen the photos.”

            “One profile picture where his nose is hidden by Curt’s and there are hideous black glasses in front of his closed eyes?  That’s hardly—”

            “Shannon had someone investigate him,” Brian informed her, his voice going cold and airy, the way it used to whenever they quarreled and he felt convinced that his was the moral high-ground.  “After he tried to expose me right before my eyes.”

            “Is that what Curt mentioned, about him ‘dropping a hint’ to you?”

            “It was much more than just a hint.  Shannon and the Committee spent weeks cleaning it up, keeping people from coming to any conclusions.”

            Mandy sighed.  He was falling back into the same state of ‘I’m always right and everything I do is automatically justified’ that he had exhibited the only other time she had talked to him since he became Tommy Stone.

            “I read the detective’s file," Tommy went on.  "That man has nothing that would appeal to Curt.  No appreciation for music.  No sense of poetry in his soul.  Nothing.  His few relationships were short, shallow affairs with men who have nothing in common with Curt.  There’s nothing about him that would turn Curt’s head.  He’s not the sort to be bowled over by a pretty face.”

            Something inside Mandy quivered like a tear on the end of an eyelash to hear the man she used to love so viciously dismissing an entire human being as if he was utterly worthless.  “Brian, detectives can’t see into a person’s soul.”

            “They can see enough.  Curt wouldn’t give himself to someone who couldn’t appreciate his music.”

            A memory floated before Mandy’s mind’s eye, a memory of a pretty, awkward boy smiling nervously, wearing a costume loosely based on one of Brian’s own, the remnants of blue coloration clinging to his hair.  “Brian, I think he’s actually—really, quite the fan…”

            “Not according to that report.”

            “And how would the detective know what music he liked?  Did he break into his apartment and go over all his records?”

            “No, but there was nothing about him buying any—”

            “And if he already bought them all back in the ‘70s, before he left England?  Or did your detective go poke around in London, too?” Mandy asked sharply.

            “Of course not.  But Curt didn’t really fool around with him in London,” Brian insisted, his voice starting to go shaky again.  “The man just convinced him that that was the case—assuming that there had to have been a day when Curt was too high to remember what he’d done.”

            “I believe him,” Mandy said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.  “He was there at that concert in ’75.  The same one…the same one you were at.”

            A sharp inrush of breath.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Part of Mandy hoped he was being so stubborn because he was ashamed of the fact that he had never looked back at her the way he had looked back at Curt.

            “The one held to commemorate the first anniversary of the most childish temper tantrum you ever threw,” Mandy specified.

            “Temper tantrum?”  Brian’s voice was filled with anger.

            “I don’t see what else to call it.”  Mandy let out a sad chuckle.  “I understand that you were angry at Jerry for not giving you time off to cope with the pain of losing Curt.  But you shouldn’t have turned on your fans as a way of lashing out at Jerry.”

            Nothing but heavy breathing on the other end of the phone.

            “I’m sorry.  I didn’t call to wade through wounds ten years old.”  Mandy sighed.  “It hurt me, too, and I suppose I’m not as recovered as I thought.”

            “I never meant to hurt you,” Brian said, after a very long pause.

            “I know.”  Though she probably wouldn’t have believed it at the time.

            They fell into a long, uncomfortable silence, but no matter how hard Mandy tried, she couldn’t come up with anything to say.  She wanted desperately to ask what he was planning on doing, what his public response to all this was going to be.  But somehow she couldn’t ask.

            “Will you talk to Curt?” Brian eventually asked.

            “I talk to him pretty regularly,” Mandy assured him.  “What did you want me to talk to him about?”

            “I want to know why he accused me of sending someone to seduce his—that reporter.”

            Mandy tried to laugh, but what came out was barely half a chuckle.  “I’m sure he wouldn’t have made that accusation without a good reason.  Curt just assumed that Shannon wouldn’t have done something like that without your knowledge.”

            “Shannon wouldn’t do that.  With or without my permission.”

            Shannon would absolutely do that.  No question about it.  “I can ask if you really want, but…I think the answer will be that Shannon really is the one who hired him to seduce Arthur.”

            “How do you know the man’s name?”

            This time, Mandy _was_ able to laugh.  “He interviewed me while he was looking for you, of course.  Seemed like a perfectly nice person.”  Hadn’t really given her any ‘gay’ vibes, though.  But if he was a big fan of Brian’s back in the ‘70s, he was probably bisexual.

            “Do you mean you’re taking his side?”

            “Brian, this isn’t something with ‘sides.’  Real life isn’t usually so tidy.  We’re all just trying to survive the best we can.”

            “So am I.”

            “You’re doing much more than that,” Mandy insisted, feeling more than hearing her own voice growing cold.  “Look at who—what!—you’re supporting!  Listen to the terrible message of the music you’re playing these days!”

            “I didn’t create the trends; I didn’t make Reynolds or his policies popular.”

            “You didn’t have to support them.”

            “If I wasn’t going to do what would make me loved by the people, then what would be the point of reinventing myself at all?  If they’re going to hate me, they might as well hate me by my own name.”  Brian actually sounded like he meant that.  Like he thought that made sense.  “I’ll be just as glad as you will when the pendulum swings back the other way, and I can be free of the worst of this bollocks.”

            “Then why are you doing it at all?!  You’re one of the things keeping the status quo from shifting!”

            “A singer hasn’t that kind of power.”

            “You know that isn’t true.”  Brian had single-handedly made half a generation spend two years claiming to be bisexual.  Sure, most of them had never gone past the experimentation phase—if they even reached it—but the fact that they had even been willing to set aside the homophobia of their parents’ generation in order to say it was impressive.  And that had all been the power of Brian’s music.  Of his genius.

            But now he was putting that genius to work for such a twisted cause!

            And he was putting the full power of his argumentative soul to twisting facts around to make it sound as if he was doing nothing wrong.  Brian subjected Mandy to as much deranged lecture as she could take, and then some.  Eventually, of course, she snapped.

            “Well, I must say, I had no idea Shannon could be so wrong about you,” she said, with as much snip as she could muster.

            “Wrong about me?  What did she say?”

            “She _claimed_ you were upset.  You’re clearly nothing of the sort.”

            A quiet, uneasy pause.  “Of course I’m upset.”

            “You’re not acting like it.”

            “Curt’s betrayed me.  How could I _not_ be upset?”

            “Betrayed you?!” Mandy repeated.  “After what you did ten years ago?!  You turned on him so hard that there’s nothing he could do that would be ‘betraying’ you!”

            “I never—”

            “If Jack hadn’t been with him in Berlin, Curt would be _dead_.”

            “That…can’t be true.”  Brian’s voice was shaking.

            “Jack never lies.”  She chuckled mournfully.  “Though he admitted he wasn’t sure if the overdose was intentional or not.”

            “Curt would never harm himself intentionally.  Especially not over me.”

            “You’re the only one he _would_ do that over,” Mandy said, though as soon as she said it she wished she had put it in the past tense.  The thought that Curt might still be willing to do himself harm over Brian was terrifying on every level.

            Over the course of about a minute, there were several soft sounds on the other end of the line, as if Brian was trying to reply, but couldn’t get past the first half of the first sound.  Despite everything, that made Mandy smile.  Once in a while, she could still understand what Brian was thinking.

            “Brian, do you want Curt’s number?”

            “I have it.”

            “I mean, the number of the hotel where he’s staying in Florida.”

            The silence coming through the phone was that of a whole room holding its breath.


	8. Chapter 8

            Though his job was actually made easier without Nate tagging along—the hotel reported that he had checked out last night—Arthur was finding that he wasn’t able to get much accomplished.  Ideally, he needed to be able to talk to delegates—even candidates, if he could swing an interview—and get information for the articles, but everyone just started laughing as soon as they saw him.  The few who hadn’t seen the tabloid had seen it on _The Moonlight Show_ , or on clips rebroadcast on the morning news.

            The entire bloody world had probably seen it by now.

            It could be worse, of course.  Much worse.  They could have seen Nate attacking him in the hotel room—that would have been unspeakable!—but it was still all sorts of humiliating.  Most people still weren’t ready to accept love between men, and from the jeers being tossed in his direction every time he wasn’t looking, everyone had clearly come to the conclusion that Arthur was exclusively the passive partner.  Even among gay men, that sometimes led to brutal humiliation, but among straight men, it equated to complete emasculation:  in their eyes, Arthur was no longer a man at all, and might as well have been wearing a dress.

            By the time Arthur returned to the room, he was exhausted, more emotionally than physically.  He was ready for a long, hot shower, a nice dinner accompanied by something very potent to drink, and an early bedtime.  To be honest, he wasn’t even in the mood for sex.  The humiliation was too great; he wasn’t sure he could stand proving them right like that.

            When he returned to the room, he found Curt in the process of hanging up the phone.  When Arthur asked who he’d been talking to, Curt gave him a tired smile.  “No one.”  It was an evasion, but Arthur was past caring.  Besides, Curt didn’t take him seriously anyway, so it was no business of his who Curt talked to when he wasn’t around.  They’d probably never see each other again after they went back to New York.  “You okay?” Curt asked.  “You look pretty glum.”

            “I’m just fagged out.”  Arthur grimaced at his own words.  Turns of phrase could be really annoying.  “I need a shower.”

            Curt nodded.  “Help yourself.”

            The first thirty seconds or so of the hot water pounding down on his back helped relieve the tension a bit, but it didn’t last.  By the time five minutes was up, Arthur was not appreciably more relaxed than he had been when he got in.  He was also suddenly not alone in the shower.

            “I didn’t mean—” Arthur started, but Curt didn’t really give him a chance to finish.

            “Turn around.  And get closer to the showerhead.  Yeah, like that.”

            “Curt, I’m not—”  Arthur stopped almost immediately as Curt started massaging his back, his fingers working hard into the knotted muscles.

            “Fuck, you’re tense.  I’m gonna break all my fingers at this rate.  Try and calm down.”

            Arthur sighed.  “It’s been a very long day.  But I’ll try.”

            “I’ve been thinking,” Curt said, after he’d been massaging Arthur’s shoulders long enough that it was starting to help just a little bit.  “We’re getting a lot of attention right now.”

            “That’s why I’m so tired,” Arthur replied, hopefully keeping the irritation out of his voice.

            “Yeah, but that’s not gonna change when we go back to New York.”

            “I know.”  Worrying about that was the _other_ reason he was so tired.

            “So we’re gonna have to go out of our way to be seen together, or everyone’ll think the worst.”

            Arthur looked at him over his shoulder.  “What do you mean by ‘the worst’?” he asked.

            Curt shrugged.  “Whatever they think is worst, that’s what they’ll think.”

            Arthur frowned, looking forwards again.  “I’m not sure that’s right…”

            “Believe me, I’ve been through this before,” Curt said, his voice heavy.  “When Brian and I broke up, everyone started whispering that it had never been serious.  Next time I was seen with another man, they said that Brian meant nothing to me.  And the next time I was seen with a woman, they started saying it had all been fake, that I’d never fucked a man at all.  And then I was seen with a man again, and it all started the fuck over again.”

            Arthur chuckled.  “I suppose they did, didn’t they?”  He’d seen articles in various places that spouted that sort of shite.  But he’d never paid it any attention, because—even before the Death of Glitter concert—he had felt that he knew better, that he understood the relationship between Brian and Curt better than any of those idiots passing judgment on them from the safety of some music monthly’s office.  “Not sure what we can do about it, though.”

            “Not a lot, in the long run,” Curt said, with a noise that was half a laugh, and half a sigh.  “As long as we keep seeing each other, and make sure they can see that we’re still fucking, that’ll head off some of the shit, but they’ll keep saying things about me and Brian, they’ll keep saying that I was never bisexual, that I’m just plain gay.”

            “Yeah.”  The real question—which Arthur couldn’t bring himself to ask—was whether or not it mattered to Curt if they called him gay.  If he thought there was something wrong with being gay instead of bisexual.

            “What about you?  Is it gonna affect your work?”  Curt’s hands moved down from Arthur’s shoulders to massage the centre of his back.

            “I’m not sure,” Arthur admitted.  “My editor…is pretty sharp.  I think he figured out a long time ago that I like blokes.  I don’t know about my co-workers.  Some of them will probably get rather nasty about it.”

            “Can you handle it?”

            Arthur smiled, glancing back over his shoulder again.  “If we’re really still seein’ each other, then I can handle almost anything.”

            Curt smiled, too, warm and tender, and just a little embarrassed.  He stepped up closer to Arthur’s back, his arms slipping around to the front, holding Arthur around the waist.  But he didn’t say anything, just rested his head against Arthur’s back.

            “What brought this on?” Arthur asked, looking forwards again.  No point in craning his head around just to see the top of Curt’s head.  “Until now, you ‘aven’t really seemed terribly serious…”

            Curt laughed nervously, letting go of Arthur and taking a step backwards again.  “I had it pointed out to me that if I get a new record deal out all this attention, everything’s gonna get more complicated.  If someone signs me because of this, and we’re not still a thing by the time the record comes out, everyone’s going to assume I’m a manipulative shit, that I only did any of this to get the free ink.”

            “They’ll probably assume that even if we _are_ still seein’ each other.”  No point in ignoring that obvious truth.

            “Some of them will, but it’d be universal if we’d already broken up.”  Curt started massaging Arthur’s lower back.  “There’s more than just that, though; the record sales are gonna be like a testing ground.  If we’re still together and the record doesn’t do shit, some people will say it’s because I’m just some gay singer that no one bought the record.  If we break up and it doesn’t sell, then _everyone_ will say it’s because I’m a heartless asshole who took advantage of you and broke your heart.”

            “But if the record sells well and we’re still seein’ each other, it might be taken as a sign that people are ready to accept people like us again,” Arthur supplied, his breath nearly catching in his throat at the awesome responsibility of it all.

            “Exactly.  A lot to put on someone’s shoulders, isn’t it?  The whole fate of same-sex love’s place in modern society…”

            Arthur laughed.  “That’s overdramatisin’ a bit, Curt.  But you’ve popularised it before,” he added.

            “That was Brian.”

            “It wouldn’t ‘ave worked without you.  Just sayin’ the words wouldn’t ‘ave convinced anyone.  But when they saw the intense, beautiful passion between you two…”  Arthur had to stop without completing the thought.  It was too much like stabbing himself in the heart.

            “I don’t know how much impact that really had.”

            “I do.”

            Curt’s hands twitched against the skin of Arthur’s back for a moment before resuming their slow, steady massaging motions.  “You think you’re up to the challenge?” he asked.

            Arthur coughed uneasily.  “Ah…I’m not much used to bein’ in the spotlight.  But I can match anyone for sheer passion!”

            Curt laughed.  “Oh, you’re gonna have to _prove_ that one,” he said, his hands moving down to Arthur’s arse, gripping and kneading and sending a throbbing desire through Arthur’s entire body, despite his earlier exhaustion.

            Arthur turned around to face Curt.  “I’m up for that any time you are, love,” he promised, before leaning in and giving him a passionate kiss.


End file.
